


His Consolation Prize

by JennCvice



Category: Love Never Dies - Lloyd Webber, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Abduction, Alternate Ending, Angst, Escape, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Song Lyrics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:07:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 62,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22920724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennCvice/pseuds/JennCvice
Summary: The Phantom just lost the only person he has ever loved. Madame Giry, in his mind, is to blame. Her daughter, Meg, would be the perfect victim to enact his revenge on... She may be innocent in all of this, but she will become more than just a pawn in his plan to punish her meddling mother. In Erik's eyes, she is his consolation prize. PotO, LND, non-cannon. Meg/Erik.
Relationships: Erik | Phantom of the Opera & Meg Giry, Erik | Phantom of the Opera/Meg Giry
Comments: 8
Kudos: 56





	1. Into Darkness

**Hello, readers! My name is Jenn, and I am new to this site. This fanfic was posted on *another* site, and a kind reviewer suggested that I post it here, as well. This story PLAGUED my mind, ever since I saw "Love Never Dies." If you haven't seen it, I most definitely recommend it. It's a far-fetched sequel to PotO, but the music is lovely. I'm not an extreme Phan, but I've loved Andrew Lloyd Webber's work ever since I first heard Michael Crawford's version of "Music of the Night."**

**This story will be an amalgamation of PotO, LND, Gaston Leroux's novel, and my over-active (read: over-indulgent) imagination.**

**Don't expect cannon. I don't do cannon. I do fanfiction.**

**Disclaimers: Not my characters, blah blah blah, I don't own the rights to anything, blah blah blah, please don't sue (it's not like I'm making any money off of someone else's work), blah.**

**Rated M for (eventual) adult content.**

* * *

Madame Giry could hear the Vicomte's hurried footsteps descending the stone stairway, as she made her way back up to the ground floor. She had told the Vicomte that she could go no further, when, in truth, she was terrified that she had already interfered in the Phantom's business beyond what he might deem forgivable.

Her thoughts were a jumbled mess of emotions: devastation for the destruction of the Opera Populaire, her only home; pity for Miss Daae, a girl whom she had practically raised; and, most of all, fear.

The outraged cries of the mob coming to claim the Phantom of the Opera filled the cavernous room. Almost as if their voices joined together in passionate chorus. If the Phantom wished to escape, he needed resources and trickery that was unknown to the ballet matron.

Fear. That was the emotion that ruled the rest. For, if the Phantom survived the mob, there was no telling how heavy his retribution would be toward her.

She and Meg would leave this same night. There was nothing left to hold onto. Christine was his and the Opera would be ashes by morning. They would start anew. All of them. And, God-willing, Madame Giry and the Phantom would never meet again.

* * *

Meg Giry hesitated, when her mother commanded her to remain above ground. After a moment, she followed her mother and Raoul through the old door leading to the underground.

The darkness disoriented her, and she did not have the time to return for a torch or candle. Letting her eyes adjust, she peered over the edge of the center stone wall and saw Raoul's torch light the two figures moving steadily down the ever-winding staircase. They were well ahead of her, but she did not call out to them. Her mother would not approve.

Mother was Christine's guardian, Raoul and Christine were to be married…but why should Christine's best friend and confidante not be included in her rescue party?

She carefully made her way down the aged stairs, occasionally monitoring her mother's and Raoul's progress. Suddenly, her mother stopped and then said something to the Vicomte. She watched as the handsome young nobleman held his hand up to his eye, almost in mock salute, mimicking her mother's same gesture. They were talking about the Phantom's famous Punjab lasso. She shuddered, but reassured herself that the Phantom would never physically hurt his beloved Christine.

Before she could take another step, she heard the mob above her, starting their descent. Their steps were confident…unhurried, like a march of crusaders. Looking up, she saw their shadows waver in the wealth of light they had brought with them. Continuing on her mission, the young Giry crept further underground.

When her mother approached, she flattened herself against a recess in the wall. Awaiting her mother's scolding, she was shocked when none came. Had her mother not seen her? With her long blonde hair and white flowing blouse? Truly?

But as she watched her mother climb the stairway, she felt her confusion melt away to worry. Her mother had the most bewildering expression on her face…as if her mother was dreading…something. Meg shook herself from her concern. All that mattered was retrieving Christine. With fresh determination, she quickened her pace down into darkness.

* * *

Despair filled the Phantom's heart as he watched the spoiled suitor lead his protégé away. Away forever, from him. They would find their happy ending together, like the end of a child's fairytale. He was no villain, however. The villain in those stories never wanted the princess or maiden to be happy. He did. He just wanted Christine's happiness to be one with his own.

"Masquerade…paper faces on parade. Masquerade. Hide your face, so the world will never find you…"

He looked up at that moment to see Christine walking toward him. Her face was morose. Did she already regret her decision?

She held out her hand to him, and he returned the gesture, reaching up from his seated position. As their hands met, his heart skipped a beat, daring to believe she had changed her mind. But he felt the ring indent his palm. A worthless ring. Purchased by the lover boy, stolen from her breast, and then offered back to her as a declaration of his desperate love. His heart sank.

"Christine, I love you…"

Her retreating form could not be pulled back by his pleading eyes or voice. She truly was gone. He wept openly at his loss, quieting his sobs to hear the last vestiges of her sweet voice echoing across the lake.

"Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime. Say the words, and I will follow you… Share each day with me, each night, each morning…"

He stood and sang his final farewell to his angel of music.

"You alone can make my song take flight…it's over now, the music of the night!"

As his voice trailed, he grabbed the nearest candelabra and began to smash all of the mirrors in his lair. Glass shards littered the uneven floors, reflecting the unmasked Phantom. Satisfied that there was enough broken glass to hide his escape route, he let the blunt object drop and stepped through the final mirror. He had heard the mob coming for him earlier; although he had pleaded with the Vicomte and Christine to tell no one about him, he was certain that, with enough people, he would eventually be found. The Phantom let the curtain fall in place behind him, shrouding him in darkness…except for a sliver of light that showed a new face enter his lair.

_Who is that?_ _Is that…little Giry? What is her name…_

Seeing her nimbly traipse through his sanctuary arouse a fury within him. It was her mother that had betrayed him. How else could the Vicomte have found his home in the catacombs? When the insolent wretch had showed up, sopping wet, at his gate, the Phantom had reigned in his surprise. He was used to improvising. Yes, he preferred to plan everything in advance, but he was always ready to adapt to whatever fate threw at him.

But if Christine's precious Raoul had not shown up, he would have carried out his plan uninterrupted. And she would have grown to love him…once she had matured into the woman he was molding her to be.

Madame Giry was the only one who knew how to find him. Her previous kindnesses were meaningless to him. She had stabbed him in the back.

And now he was about to return the favor.

_Meg. That's her name._

She was pretty. Long, wavy blonde hair. Porcelain skin that, paired with her hazel eyes, lit up her youthful face in an absolute picture of innocence. Delicate features. She had been a close friend to Christine, he recalled, from the very beginning of their boarding together. Meg surpassed Christine in dance ability, but not in any other category.

His eyes narrowed as he watched her study his mask. He had forgotten to take it with him. That lapse of judgment did nothing to quell the rage boiling inside of him. Quietly, he knelt down to the floor to grab the spare rope that lay there. He easily tied the noose knot, and allowed his fingers to grip either side of the loop. Underneath his black gloves, his knuckles were probably as white as the mask Meg held.

_Wherever you are, Marguerite Giry, I hope you feel your daughter's death to the very core of your soul. You deceitful woman, you deserve so much worse…but this will have to do._

He prepared to lunge from his hiding place…

A new idea infiltrated his mind. It caused him to drop the rope.

He crept up behind her and grabbed her petite frame. One arm wrapped around her waist, while the other hand muffled her cries of alarm. Her hands flew to the hand that held her mouth, still holding onto the Phantom's mask. He felt her back press further into his as she hyperventilated against him. When he had finally dragged her to the hidden tunnel behind the mirror, her body slumped in faint. He picked up her lithe frame and threw her limp body over his shoulder, then bent down to retrieve the bag he had packed and placed earlier in the week.

After walking about ten feet further down the tunnel, he paused to pick up the end of another rope. One sharp tug and the peg that had been holding loose rock caused a cave-in that blocked passage back to his home. Not that it was his home, anymore.

He turned away from his past and contemplated his future. It was time, once again, to improvise.

And even though he was leaving without Christine, he still had a consolation prize.


	2. A Journey

The Phantom was most displeased at the way the evening had progressed. As he trudged through the catacomb tunnels with the girl still over his shoulder, he reflected upon the night's earlier happenings.

His beautiful Christine had ousted him in the middle of his debut onstage. During his musical masterpiece that had taken years to pen. In front of a packed house, she had unmasked him. The worst part of that moment hadn't been the betrayal of her actions…it had been the pity in her eyes right after she had done so. It was as if she was apologizing for never being able to love him back.

He had planned to take her after _Don Juan Triumphant_ concluded; instead, he moved on to his secondary plan. He and Christine plunged down through the fake flames, through the stage, to a safety net far below. The screams of the audience, orchestra, and theatrical company intensified and echoed down to the mismatched pair, as the Phantom pulled the young diva from the net she still lay upon. Clearly, the chandelier was making its way toward the stage. It would inevitably start a fire above. _We shall be safe below._

Christine fought him, attempting her escape, so he reluctantly pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and held it to her face. She breathed the acrid chemical in and ceased her struggle. He placed the laced kerchief back into his pocket and gathered his _prima donna_ into his arms.

Above, there was mass panic, after the chandelier had crashed into the orchestra pit. The lit candles tumbled everywhere, dripping wax onto the beautifully restored chairs, the pristine wooden flooring, and the gilded ornamental accents. Small fires started everywhere around the crash site, meeting each other to form larger and stronger flames that no simple boot could stamp out.

"We're ruined, Andre! RUINED!" Firmin and his partner fled the madness, helpless to save their investment.

Raoul was struck dumb by the combination of recent events. He watched people stampeding toward the exits, in all their finery, and wondered if this all wasn't partly his fault. Snapped back into action when he saw Madame Giry, he raced from his box seat to the ground level. If there was anyone who knew how he was to save Christine, it was her.

Below the opera house, Christine slowly came back to consciousness. Her body swayed back and forth, against a hard body clothed mostly in black.

_Where am I? Raoul?_

Suddenly remembering her current situation, her body tensed in the arms of her captor. Realizing that she would be subdued no longer, he gently put her down. She stared up the imposing figure. Without his mask, he was still attempting to hide the deformed side of his face. He could not look straight at her, until she sought to run in the opposite direction.

Her dress and heels hampered her chances, and the Phantom easily grabbed her arm and dragged her behind him. As they descended further into his realm, Christine marveled at the dreary atmosphere.

_I remember candelabras, gold décor, emblazoned torches that lit tidy brick hallways…and wasn't there a horse? Perhaps he leads me down a different corridor._

But before she could reassure herself that they had taken an alternate route, she saw the boat floating upon the lake. It was the same one she had ridden in twice before, on her singular trip to and from the Phantom's chamber.

_It was finer than this, though…this small vessel looks like Charon's ferry, not the elegant transport that I rode in with him last time…_

She cleared her throat and caught his attention; he turned to look at her, but still forced her onto the boat.

"Why is everything so much more morose on this trip to the underground? Why are there suddenly cobwebs and dust where there were none?"

The Phantom smirked darkly at her. "I have spent six months down here without my angel of music. You did not seek me once since the night of the masquerade. I cannot maintain the façade of opulence and sophistication in all parts of my domain. Especially when there is no one but me to appreciate it."

She looked down at his accusatory glare, hesitating with what she wanted to ask next.

"That night you brought me down here, I saw such mystical, grand things…was that what they were? A façade?"

He pushed the boat away from the small dock and began to row toward the large metal gate that separated his world from reality. His eyes stared straight ahead, over her.

"You saw what you wanted to see."

She was puzzled by his cryptic answer, but chose not to question him further. Sensing her averseness to continuing their conversation, he began to sing.

"Down once more to the dungeon of my black despair! Down we plunge to the prison of my mind! Down that path into darkness deep as hell!"

As he screamed the last word, she turned in the small boat to face him. Fearful eyes met his and, for a moment, he turned his face to once again hide his imperfection. When his eyes abruptly snapped back to hers, the next part of his song was a challenge to her purity.

"Why, you ask, was I bound and chained in this cold and dismal place? Not for any mortal sin, but the wickedness of my abhorrent face!"

Out of nowhere, faint echoes of what must have been a mob of people coming for them resounded on the stone walls… "Track down this murderer! He must be found!"

He looked pitifully down on her, seeking solace.

"Hounded out by everyone! Met with hatred everywhere! No kind word from anyone! No compassion anywhere! Christine, Christine ..."

Arriving at his home, he exited the boat, released the lever to close the large gate, and then returned to his treasure. He pulled her from her seated position and shook her.

"Why, why ...?"

After that, everything had gone to hell. When Raoul had miraculously found his way to them, the Phantom felt trapped. He could not let the Vicomte follow them to their next location, but perhaps he could finally force Christine's hand. Using the young lover's life as a bargaining chip, he demanded Christine to choose. Freedom with the death of the Vicomte, or their permanent separation from each other. Either way she chose, the Phantom would win.

Amazingly, the young Vicomte urged his fiancé to run. His reasoning was that his life would be forfeit either way, being without his love.

 _Idiot_ , the Phantom mused. _If she does choose your death, I will recapture her, anyway. But at least one less obstacle will stand in my way…_

Christine's last plea hurt him more than he would ever know, and her dainty lips pressed against his own made him realize that he'd gone too far. She would never grow to love him, now. Not after he had placed an unfathomable decision in her hands.

So he let her go. He let them go. There was no point in continuing his plan, now. She would hate him forever, regardless of which path she chose.

Either way she chose, the Phantom would lose…for he would only personify pure evil in the eyes of his adored.

When Meg had appeared, after the lovers had departed, the Phantom had felt gratified that his last act of vengeance would be on the woman who had devastated his dreams. And, with his signature lasso around her beloved daughter's cold neck, the madam could be certain of to whom the Phantom's final message was addressed.

But another death was not necessary. Especially for such a beautiful creature. She did not have Christine's brilliant voice, but her charms could be quite useful…in the right hands.

_I will use her, ruin her…and, when the time is right, when she is no longer needed…I will dispose of her. My happy ending will be much better avenged this way._

Reaching the end of his long journey underground, he made his way up another spiraling stairway that would lead him to the surface, blocks away from the Opera Populaire. Above, he heard a horse's whinny. He smiled, but paused when he felt his load begin to squirm.

He knelt down in the middle of the stairway and gently set her down against the wall. Assured that she would not fall over, he let go of his new charge to retrieve something from his breast pocket. Pleased with his resourcefulness, he placed the same handkerchief that had subdued her friend earlier against her mouth and nose. Her eyes fluttered open momentarily…then her body succumbed to the disabling chemical. Once, again, the Phantom placed the fabric back into his jacket pocket.

From his satchel, he retrieved another half mask and fastened it to his countenance. He reclaimed her body onto his shoulder, resituated himself and the items he carried, and continued his journey.

Reaching the top, he opened the camouflaged door that led out onto the street. On the outskirts of the city, the businesses were closed and all of their patrons and workers asleep. In the distance he could barely make out smoke and the tips of flames coming from the opera. Turning down an alley, he saw his trusty steed, Cesar, in the care of a shady-looking man.

"Hello, again. Thank you for your service," the Phantom congratulated, as he dug in a different pocket for the francs that he owed. "And for your confidentiality." He placed the payment in the poorly kept man's hand, with a warning look.

The man took the money and stuffed it away, still holding onto the horse's reins. He stared up at the woman balanced on the masked man's shoulder. Either deciding to tempt fate or act on an imbecilic impulse, he spoke.

"You mentioned you'd have a young girl with you. Didn't mention she'd be out cold. Or is she dead?"

"She is none of your concern."

The Phantom grabbed the reins from the nosy individual and carefully maneuvered Meg over the shoulders of the horse. The satchel he had with him was fastened to the saddle. He then gracefully mounted his animal and situated the young girl so that she was seated in front of him. One arm held her securely around her waist, while the other held Cesar's reins. The horse walked about, adjusting to the weight on its back, and waited for instruction.

The dingy man had been watching the entire time. Thinking the whole matter to be quite suspicious, he recognized an opportunity to extort more money from the obviously rich man.

"I'm not sure I can just let you go, seeing the poor girl in such a state. Might have to call for a _gendarme_ …"

The Phantom narrowed his eyes at the nuisance before him.

"You may do whatever you wish. Just do me the favor of moving from my path or the last thing you shall feel this night will be my horse's hooves upon your back!"

Now sufficiently frightened, the man stumbled back to the wall and watched as the Phantom's horse galloped away. He thought about making good on his threat and alerting the _gendarmerie_ to what had transpired…but how much did he actually know? What could he tell them?

_For a week, I boarded his horse in my stables. Until this very night, when I had been instructed to bring his horse, saddled, to this alleyway. He said he'd meet me and that he'd have a young lady with him._

And what else? He had no idea who the man was or where he'd come from, who the woman he'd clearly kidnapped was…and he most definitely had no idea where they were going.

Defeated, the man made his way back home. He simply didn't know enough to be of any help.

 _Besides,_ he reasoned, _I don't need the gendarmerie taking any interest in me…it'd be bad for business._

Meanwhile, the Phantom and a drugged Meg made their way out of Paris, en route to Le Havre. They had not left the city limits before she awoke. The jostling of the ride pulled her out of her unconscious state quicker than he had imagined. As she drew breath to scream, she felt his lips at her ear.

"It would be most unwise to cause a scene, little Meg. Christine is safe, with her young man. But you, my dear, are most definitely not. I would have no qualm in strangling you right now and tossing you to the ground. If you would like to remain breathing, and awake, I would suggest you keep very quiet."

She was too bewildered to cry. Could this be some sort of nightmare that she was having? Everything was so vivid…too real. She heeded his warning and did not scream. What could she possibly say? Pleading would do no good. And she could not afford to anger him further. What questions were safe to ask of a kidnapping and murderous madman?

"W-where are…we g-going?" she whispered. She couldn't tell if her stuttering words were the result of fear or the cold.

"You don't need to know that. All that matters is that we are NOT going back. Say goodbye to Paris, mademoiselle."

The ride took most of the night, and a couple of stops had to be made to let Cesar rest and rehydrate. Each time they dismounted, the Phantom held her arm in vise-like grip. She was tired, confused, and ultimately too afraid to ask any more questions. Neither of them instigated conversation…they didn't even look at each other.

At the second stop, Meg thought about pulling away from his grasp and running for help. However, they had not passed through any major cities, or towns. In the darkness, she couldn't even tell if they were passing near any farms. She could wait until they arrived in a more public location. She needed somewhere, someone, to run to.

When they finally reached the outskirts of the port city, the first hues of daylight were just beginning to show on the horizon. Before entering in the main gates, the Phantom stopped his horse alongside the road and dismounted. Confused, and seeing no water source nearby, she let out a surprised yelp when he grabbed her hands and pulled her down from the saddle.

"Ouch! Why…"

"We are about to embark on a journey, Miss Giry. I need to know that you care enough about your livelihood to cause no problems. If you foolishly choose to run…"

He held up his Punjab lasso, and let it dangle in front of her eyes.

"Not only will I find and kill you, but I will make my way back to Paris to kill your mother, as well."

Both of her small hands flew to her mouth, as she gasped. The Phantom sharply removed her hands with one of his own, and then slung the noose over her head. He did not tighten it; he held the other end like a leash, daring her to make a run for it.

He placed her back in the saddle and remounted behind her. Meg noticed that he held the horse's reins in one hand and the rope in his other. As they made their way into La Havre, he pulled the noose taut around her neck. She stilled, but made no move to scream.

"If you are obedient, you will be rewarded. And then, perhaps, you and your mother will both live long and happy lives."

She knew he was lying, but she didn't know why…not yet. He had loved Christine, but he had never shown an inkling of interest in anyone else, unless that someone had stood between Christine and either her career or himself. Meg was expendable.

Not many people were on the street yet, so the Phantom kept up the horse's gait at a cantor. When they reached the coastline, he rode toward a man waiting at the end of a pier. As they neared him, the portly man called out.

"Ahoy, there! Congratulations on yer wedding. This must be yer beautiful new wife…" His eyes met Meg's who couldn't help but look completely astonished. _Wife?_

"And, say, she really is a beaut, ain't she?"

The Phantom ignored the sailor and set about dismounting. He threw the reins to the man and exited the saddle on the opposite side, hiding the rope that connected to the blonde's neck. Meg was still being a good girl, but he gave her another look of warning as he pulled her down. His hand firmly gripped the end of the rope, while his other arm draped his cape over her shivering shoulders.

"Is everything in order? I trust all my demands have been met." The Phantom's eyes swept up and down the harbor, noting that he needed to rush them along.

" _Oui_ ," the middle-aged sailor affirmed. "I am not embarking on this particular trip, but I have sailed this route many, many times. When you board, follow the rope I have laid on the floor. It will lead you to a hidden room with plenty of supplies for your trip."

"And our whereabouts…"

"Will be completely secret from the crew. It's basically an unused spare parts room that I happened to find on one of my voyages. I have cleaned it out, a bit, so you lovebirds should be comfortable." At this, he winked at the both of them.

The Phantom gritted his teeth, but continued making sure all loose ends had been tied up.

"And when we arrive to our destination?"

"I would suggest waiting for the passengers and most of the crew to disembark, then feign confusion. Act as though you had missed the disembark time, due to…your activities. Around nightfall, they'll have only a skeleton crew, so they will just be eager to have you leave."

"Good. I promised you a bonus, for a job efficiently done, and you have delivered. I gift you my steed." The Phantom's hand tightened around Meg's shoulder and pulled her closer into his side. The gesture seemed affectionate to the sailor, but Meg could tell that the Phantom was upset to relinquish his precious stallion. _Perhaps, if a horse was as easy to board as a human, I would have been the gift instead…_ she pondered.

"His name is Cesar, and he has served me well. I hope you will take excellent care of him, or sell him to someone who will do so."

The man seemed to better understand the sacrifice, so he nodded graciously.

" _Oui_ , monsieur. He will have a good home." He stroked Cesar's neck in adoration. "But, _mon Dieu_! We must get you aboard immediately! No time to waste or you will be found! Remember, follow the rope…and _bon voyage_!"

Still holding onto Meg tightly, the Phantom pushed Meg forward onto the gangplank. She had no idea where she was going or what was to become of her. Would she never find a way out of his clutches?


	3. Close Quarters

The two stowaways had followed the sailor's instructions and trailed the rope to a small room in the dregs of the ship. As they had traveled, the Phantom had coiled the rope around one of his forearms. The rope that connected to the lasso that still encircled Meg's neck lay slack against her back, but the masked man was right behind her. She was too terrified and confused to try to escape, and there seemed to be no one on the huge vessel.

As soon as they had reached the room, her captor had immediately shut the door behind them and secured it from the inside. He and the young ballerina were plunged into darkness, until he struck a match that, to Meg, had seemed to appear from thin air. She stared at him, while he took in his surroundings. Finding a lantern, he lit it quickly, and then placed it on a small table that had been illuminated.

They both surveyed the space around them. On one side of the room, bedding had been arranged on what looked like straw, feathers, and a thick mat. In the far corner, a couple of barrels stood on end, with blackened labels that read " _EAU POTABLE_ " and " _EAU DE BAIGNER_ ". Stacked next to the barrels were crates of what she assumed to be food. The small table that now housed the lantern was home to a basin, with a washcloth inside. Next to that, two glasses and plates were neatly aligned with silverware and napkin cloths. Underneath the table was a box of candles, medical supplies, and other miscellaneous odds and ends.

The Phantom had certainly been thorough.

Meg went to ask what the preparation had been for, but held her tongue when she heard rustling from above them on the ship. The Phantom heard it, too, and his eyes instantly went to hers. He narrowed his eyes at her, when she opened her mouth, and clamped his hand over her lips.

"Not one sound or I will cut out your worthless tongue!"

Her eyes pleaded with his, but she made no sound. With his hand still over her mouth, he grabbed one of the napkins from the table and gagged her. The end of the rope that still held her bound neck was used to bind her wrists together, as well. He left her legs alone, but grabbed the rope that connected her hands to her throat and used it to roughly guide her to the makeshift bed. She cried out in pain, as the slack from the rope tightened until she could barely breathe, before he unceremoniously threw her down.

She cried as softly as she could into the cloth that suffocated her mouth, as the Phantom listened to the activity that became louder with each minute.

Sailors called out to one another, various orders were barked…and then the excited twitterings of passengers boarding could be heard. None of the noises were anywhere near their secluded room, so the Phantom let out a sigh of relief and sat upon the bed next to his new charge.

Meg had ceased her crying, and now she just lay on her back, staring at the dark ceiling. Her wrists rested upon her breast, while her blonde hair fanned out underneath her. The noose was still uncomfortably tight, but she could breathe, and she was too scared to slacken it. What if that small action made him even angrier with her? She felt completely helpless. She had disobeyed her mother to save her friend…was this an appropriate consequence for her rebellious act?

The Phantom turned to look at her prone form, admiring how her pert breasts swelled with her more relaxed breathing. Her hair was a messy halo around her pretty face, and her long dancer's legs stretched over the side of the bed. She fearfully darted her eyes toward his, then away to the wall.

"Now that I am certain that we are quite alone in this area of the ship, I will remove the gag." His voice had not returned her gaze to him, so he grabbed her chin to motivate her. "Would you like for me to do that?"

She nodded twice, slowly, with her chin still in his grasp.

"As long as you are obedient, I shall be lenient with you. If you attempt to escape, call for help, or do anything I find displeasing, the gag will be the least of your worries." He paused to let the threat sink in, before continuing. "Do you understand?"

At this point, she was desperate to be free of the restraints. Her mouth, forced open, was drying out. She nodded more feverishly.

The Phantom acknowledged her acquiescence by swiftly removing the offending cloth from her mouth. When the air rushed in, she was forced to cough. Annoyed by the noise, but realizing that she was not trying to be subversive, he pushed the cloth gently to her lips. She understood, and allowed the napkin to muffle her coughs. She took it into her bound hands and continued to hold it against her, while the Phantom grabbed a glass from the table and filled it with some of the drinking water from the top barrel.

After pulling her into a seated position on the bed, he offered the water to her with a raised eyebrow. Dropping the napkin, she gratefully drank the water in controlled gulps. When it was empty, he snatched the glass back from her and laid it back on the table.

The two roommates stared at each other, until Meg dared to ask what she had been struggling to figure out.

"What have I done to deserve your wrath? I did nothing to hinder your plans." She asked the question of him with modesty and restraint. She kept her eyes downcast, attempting to be as non-threatening as possible.

He contemplated what, exactly, to tell her. Should she know everything? _I suppose it wouldn't hurt, now. Revealing what has passed will not give away what I have in store…_

"You didn't exactly help, either, Miss Giry. Do you not remember telling Christine that she 'must have been dreaming,' when she confided to you about me, her Angel of Music?"

Meg's eyes rose to his. "I-"

"And after Christine's debut in _Hannibal_ , did you not attempt to follow us down to the catacombs?"

"I didn't know where-"

"And at the end of my masterpiece, _Don Juan Triumphant_ , did you not follow us, again, to my lair?"

She said nothing, but lowered her eyes back to a knot in the wooded floor.

"I would like an answer, Miss Giry."

"I was worried for my friend. I did not succeed in any of my efforts to help her…"

"Not for lack of trying, Meg."

"True," she conceded. "But you act as if you are the faulted party. I am the one here against my will, _monsieur_."

"As am I," he growled. She shuddered at the dangerous tone. "I should be with Christine right now, not…you. She and I were complete, together. She was my Angel of Music, and I was hers." His voice lowered, as his daydream melted to his current reality. "But, truthfully, you are 'here against your will' because of your trouble-making mother!"

"M-my mother?"

"Yes!" he continued. "Surely you cannot be completely naïve to the fact that your mother was helping Christine's precious Vicomte?"

"I only knew-"

"If not for her interference, Christine and I would be on this voyage…and I wouldn't be holding a poor replacement captive."

Even though she cared little for the man in front of her, his biting remarks still stung her pride. So she was a poor man's Christine? She had never before compared herself to her friend. Even after Christine Daae had become the newest _prima donna_ at the Opera Populaire, Meg had taken comfort in the fact that they each had their own set of talents. Christine could be the _prima donna_ , and Meg would continue as the _prima ballerina_.

Now, Meg realized that the Phantom felt that she was worth much less than her talented friend. And that fact hurt.

She cleared her throat lightly, before speaking.

"So I am to pay for my mother's trespasses against you? And what is to become of me?"

"Yes," he affirmed, "I took you from your mother to punish her for the rest of her miserable life." He regarded her silently, debating how to answer her second question. "And I do not yet know what is to become of you…but I can tell you this: your livelihood will be greatly influenced by the choices you make. Do not trifle with me. I will not tolerate any little hiccup, from now on."

Meg opened her mouth to continue her questions, but he gave her a look that silenced her.

"I am tired from an exceedingly long, aggravating night. I'd venture that you feel the same. Move over, and let us lie down, now, and get some much needed rest."

The young girl's eyes went wide at the prospect of sharing the bed with the imposing figure, and she did not move. After a moment, the Phantom pushed her back and rolled her onto her side, facing the wall. Behind her, he moved the lantern and box of matches closest to the bed, on the table. A small whoosh of air blacked-out the room; Meg thought she heard him set something else on the table… _His mask, perhaps?_

He slipped into bed behind her, facing away from her. He flipped over and gently loosened the noose around her neck. She almost sighed in relief, now able to breathe unhindered. He readjusted himself so that he faced away from her, and then remained still.

" _Monsieur_?" she whispered.

"What?" he snapped.

"Do you have a name, or am I to call you the Phantom of the Opera?"

He mulled over what name to give her. _Even Christine didn't know my true name…_ The thought saddened him. _Angel? No, I am no angel to this girl. Shall I just have her call me 'monsieur' or 'sir'?_

The long pause discouraged Meg. Was he unwilling to share the slightest bit of information about himself? Had he fallen asleep?

"Erik."

Meg had been lost in her thoughts, and had barely heard the man whisper the name.

"I beg your pardon, _monsieur_ , what did you say?"

"I said my name is Erik."

It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. Erik. Such an ordinary name. Not gruesome, nor mystical. She didn't know what she had expected, but 'Erik' certainly surprised her. Eventually, her thoughts subsided, and she allowed herself to drift into a dreamless sleep.

Beside her, Erik listened for her breathing to slow, while regretting his decision to share his name with her. A name held power…it held intimacy. When her breathing was measured and deep, he, too, fell asleep.


	4. Dark Dreams

" _Passarino… go away, for the trap is set and waits for its prey…"_

_The Phantom used his costume's cape to shield his body and face from the other actor, not wishing him to be immediately suspicious. Piangi had, regrettably, not heeded the Phantom's advice about losing weight. Now he lay dead behind the curtain, another victim of the Punjab lasso._

_The actor playing Passarino nodded and crept back to his spot off-stage. For just a moment, the Phantom allowed himself to take in the fact that he was, for the very first time, a performer on his beloved stage. His eyes swept over the blurred faces in the audience and then landed on his protégé. Her back was to him, but he knew she would steal his breath when she turned to him and began her song._

" _You have come here, in pursuit of your deepest urge! In pursuit of that wish which, 'til now, has been silent…" Christine's eyes raised in acknowledgment of his true identity, so he held a finger to his lips in mock threat. "Silent…"_

" _I have brought you, that our passions may fuse and merge…"_

_Off-stage, he noticed a blonde ballerina watching him with a worried expression. Or was she watching Christine? He ignored her and looked, again, to his love._

" _In your mind you've already succumbed to me, dropped all defenses, completely succumbed to me…"_

_Christine trembled, either in character or in real fear. She looked away, up to Box Five, where that pugnacious Vicomte sat._

" _Now, you are here with me. No second thoughts, you've decided…decided…"_

_His eyes once again darted to the blonde backstage. She was chewing on her lower lip in a most alluring manner…did she know how sensual she looked? He shook himself, and kept singing._

_He played his part well. His voice resonated across the vast theatre, while he circled the young girl. She stared, bewildered, up at his imposing form. After his solo, Christine chimed in with her own verse. The male dancers ran onto stage behind them, but he barely noticed. Her voice enthralled him. It always had._

_They ascended spiral staircases on opposite ends of the stage, still singing the suggestive lyrics to each other. When they had reached the apex, they crossed the bridge toward the center of the stage, meeting in the middle. He spun her in his arms and looked down at the stage below._

_He didn't know when Meg had entered with the girls, but he saw her in the arms of a male dancer. Like the other pairs onstage, the two of them tangled together in sordid ways, lit by the fake firelight. His eyes narrowed._

_He felt his Angel of Music start in his arms, so he pulled his attention away from the dancers and focused on Christine. She was looking at him in the strangest way…expectantly. She was singing…was he supposed to be singing? He had forgotten where they were in the song. Christine was looking at Raoul, again, so he looked down at Meg._

_She had her back against her partner, with her arms behind his head, linked at her wrists. His mouth nuzzled her neck. With one hand, he caressed one of her dainty arms from the elbow down to where it met her breast. The other hand pushed against the fabric at her trim waist, trying to feel her silky skin beneath the material._

_He was furious._

_Out of the corner of his eye, he could tell that all of the dancing pairs were doing similar choreography. He just didn't care. The other dancing girls meant nothing to him._

_He released Christine and jumped over the railing. When his feet met the ground, the dancers screamed in fright and ran offstage. He made a complete circle, puzzled to see that the audience members were dissolving before his eyes. The dancers that had run offstage had disappeared into nothingness. Looking up, he saw that Christine had that same look of pity in her eyes…but he was not unmasked. She, too, faded away, taking her pity with her._

_Now it was just him, Meg, and Meg's partner. They continued the routine, apparently oblivious to their surroundings. The man grabbed Meg's right inner thigh and pulled it further against him, having her wrap her leg back in an attitude around his waist. His hand tightened on her thigh and she let out a moan._

_Suddenly, the Phantom felt the weight of rope in his right hand. He gripped it with his gloved hand and circled around the dancing duo. With precision that only comes from practice, he slipped the noose over the nameless man's hand and drew it tightly around his neck._

_Meg dropped to the floor in utter shock. She stared up in horror at the Phantom, as he strangled the life out of her partner. When the man showed no sign of life, the Phantom let go of the body and let it fall. Meg made no attempt to move, but held an arm up to shield her from the abuse she thought would come. The Phantom grabbed her wrist and pulled her up to him._

_Pulling her body flush to his, he permitted his eyes to take in her exquisite features. Her lips parted in surprise, and her cheeks began to flush._

_He kissed her mercilessly._

_When he pulled away, her eyes were hooded and her lips were swollen from his work. He decided she was even more beautiful that way._

_He dragged her to the center of the stage, where the fake fire pit still lit the set around them. Kicking the apparatus to the side, a great gaping hole was revealed. He grabbed his prize around her waist and forced her to jump with him into the abyss below…_

The falling sensation roused Erik from his vivid dream. In the darkness, he registered that he was still lying on his side, facing away from the subject of his dream. He lightly placed his hand on the table he knew to be near him. The mask still lay there.

Beside him, Meg's breathing was still even. It was a wonder that she could sleep so soundly, given the stress she had to be under. But then, perhaps it was sheer exhaustion that required her body to shut down and relax.

He thought about the dream that had wrenched him from his sleep. When he had been onstage for _Don Juan_ , he had, in fact, noticed Meg in the wings. She had been next to her mother, he recalled. But it had been a cursory glance. His attention had been solely on Christine for the majority of the final song.

It's not as if he'd never noticed Meg. She was beautiful, and, by far, the best dancer in the company. However, dancing was not his forte. He had no passion for it. As long as Marguerite had kept her dancers out of Christine's way and uniform in movement, he cared little about their performance.

What was the emotion he had felt toward Meg in his dream? Protectiveness? Jealousy? Lust?

He did not deny that he wished to bed her. She may not have been his first choice, but, then again, neither had the prostitutes Erik had slept with over the years.

Christine was young, innocent. It would be indecent for an older man such as himself to pursue her romantically. Still, when he had first heard her singing as a little girl, he had felt longing. A stirring within him that she would one day grow into a woman that he could fully possess. So, he had molded her.

First, he had desired her attention. He had called out to her and encouraged her. She was hesitant, in the beginning, but she had warmed to the voice of what she assumed to be an angel…sent from her late father.

Next, he wanted her voice. She was an apt pupil. Her days were mostly spent in class with the other ballet prodigies, and her nights were his. She would descend into the depths of the opera house, where a small prayer room had been set up. It was mostly forgotten by the hedonist artists, but she was still uncorrupted. She would light a candle for her father, say a prayer, and then wait. He always watched her from the shadows, but he would not let her come near him. He had convinced her that, if she saw him, he would have to disappear forever. Impressionable and naïve, she took his word as truth and did not cross him. He tutored her in vocal performance…and she improved nightly.

But he craved carnal pleasure. Not just for the release…for the companionship. The first time he had paid for a whore's services, he had hardly enjoyed himself. She had eyed his mask with curiosity, but said nothing. Afterward, he had bathed himself until he was numb from the cold. He only used the ladies because he couldn't have what he wanted. His tastes were picky, and, because he had the money, he never settled. He wanted them to be young, fresh, and pale with long brown hair.

Soon, Christine had grown into a young lady. She was finally at an age that was appropriate for wooing. He already had her attention, her voice…he wanted the rest of her. Forever.

He had a plan for everything. It was his nature. He would make her a star, and then, in her gratitude, she would be elated at meeting the man who had made her dreams come true.

The arrival of the Opera's new patron had shocked him. Not that he was young and handsome and interested in Christine…he had been shocked to find them speaking casually to one another in her dressing room. The rich Vicomte knew her. And Erik realized that the familiarity between the two of them necessitated a new plan.

Instead of waiting any longer, he had revealed himself to her. When he'd pulled her from her world to his, he could see that she was still impressionable. She was in awe of the mysterious Phantom of the Opera. And even after she had unmasked him, he had felt it was only a minor setback. He returned her to her dressing room; he was confident that, the next time they met, she would not be repulsed by him.

And then those stupid owners had directly disobeyed his orders. The role of the Countess in _Il Muto_ belonged to Christine. Carlotta's talent had been out-shone. If she was not wise enough to bow out gracefully and move on, then it was the owners' responsibility to force her out.

The two fools had let out Box Five, cast Carlotta as the Countess, and put his songstress in the most useless role onstage…she neither danced, nor sang. He had flown off the handle, admittedly, but those imbeciles had pushed him too far. He ignored the Box, for the moment, and made sure that Carlotta was laughed offstage. When Andre had declared Christine to be her replacement, he had smirked in triumph. They must have thought his wrath would be abated.

However, he set his sights on the insignificant stage manager, Joseph Buquet. The man knew too much about the Opera Ghost, and he was spreading his knowledge to those around him. When the Phantom had caught him mocking his deformities, whilst bringing Christine back to aboveground, he had sworn to himself that Buquet would die soon thereafter. The stories he was telling the chorus girls…what if Christine had been an audience to that? Erik would not let some cretin tarnish his reputation any more.

Killing him had been incredibly satisfying; although, in retrospect, it would have been wiser to make his death a private one. The entire theatre had gone into an uproar, and he watched as Christine had fled to the roof with Raoul. He followed them up, using a different route.

And then…oh, the agony. They had professed their love for one another. The Vicomte proposed, Christine had accepted…and then she had denied her Angel of Music's very existence. Erik had been physically ill, as the anguish tore his heart into pieces. After they had left, he had focused his heartache into pure hatred. He had done everything…EVERYTHING for her. And he knew that she had to love him. They had grown too close for there to be no intimate connection between them.

It was Raoul's fault. It was Andre's and Firmin's fault. It was Carlotta's fault. They had all played a part in pulling Christine's affection away from him. And they would all pay a steep price for doing so. He would take what they loved, and they would be justly punished for taking what was meant to be his.


	5. Forged Identities

Erik was unable to go back to sleep, as his thoughts were still racing. He stealthily maneuvered himself off the bed, without alerting Meg, and felt for his mask. Once it was secured, he quietly lit the lantern.

As silently as possible, he moved one of the crates closer to the table. He did not care about Meg's quality of sleep. He only wished for her to remain undisturbed so that she, in turn, would not disturb him. He pulled some materials out of the box below the small table and placed them next to the lantern.

The journey across the ocean would take about two weeks, but he was not the type of man to leave anything until the last minute. He began his work, while letting his mind drift back to what he had been brooding on before…

His fury was untamable. Raoul, Andre, Firmin, and Carlotta deserved to suffer for their interference. And so, the Phantom directed a new plan that would bring retribution.

Andre and Firmin were prideful men who had made a risky investment. They had pushed themselves to control something they knew nothing about: the arts. Instead of allowing the Phantom to steer the direction of their company toward success, they had selfishly held the reins. Their mistakes had been costly, but not costly enough. After checking into their financial histories, Erik knew that if they lost the Opera Populaire, they would lose everything. He would ensure that his beloved Opera would go out in style…in a blaze of glory.

Carlotta was nothing more than a vain peacock, strutting around the stage, acting like she worked harder than anyone else in the company. Well past her prime, she had ignored his multiple threats…all in an effort to stay significant to her imagined fans. She looked for affirmation from all those around her, especially Ubaldo Piangi, and expected nothing but the best. Her lover's affirmations were often the only thing that could soothe her, during her frenzied outbursts. What would she do without his adulation? She would soon be forced to find out.

And Raoul…the prestigious Vicomte de Chagny…his fate would be fitting, as he was the most to blame. Andre and Firmin would probably recover, perhaps not as quickly as they would like, but eventually they would be fiscally sound. Carlotta would be inconsolable…until she found another tenor to adore her like one of her mindless lapdogs. But the Vicomte, he would truly suffer. For his pain would not subside with time. He would lose his precious fiancé, and he would have no one to blame for his loss but himself.

Meg had awoken when the Phantom turned on the light. In the dark, cramped room, any light source flooded the area. She thought about turning over to face him…Erik…the Phantom…but, she was in no hurry to meet his cold gaze. She listened as he pulled something across the floor and then sat upon it. _One of the crates, probably._ Then she heard papers rustling…and then scribbling of a writing tool. Her curiosity peaked, and she slowly rolled to face…him.

He sat on one of the food crates and was bent over the table. His left hand held his forehead, while his right inked words to paper. Hearing her shift, he looked up at her, and then back down to whatever it was he was working on.

" _Monsieur…_ er, Erik?"

He halted his script, and looked up at her again. He didn't look agitated, but his countenance was not pleasant, either.

"I'm sorry…I just was curious as to what you are writing. Another opera?"

"My dear," he spoke sardonically. "When we land, it would be helpful if, in showing identification, I am not myself."

She looked at him blankly, and he sighed.

"I am forging documents, so that I can live my life as something other than a fugitive."

"Ah." Meg remained lying on her side, staring at Erik. "And where are we traveling to? Or will you still not tell me?"

He hesitated before answering, but feigned indifference by turning his attention back to the paperwork in front of him. "New York."

"New York!" Meg gasped and attempted to sit up. Her bindings prevented her from being able to put her hands anywhere other than her chest. "We are leaving Europe? Is it not enough to leave our country behind, that you would have us leave the entire continent, as well?" The trepidation she had previously felt worsened with this news.

He threw his pen down and stood, menacingly. "You forget that your opinion is neither needed nor wanted, Miss Giry. Do not tempt me to gag you, again."

Meg flinched and looked down. "I am sorry, Erik."

He seated himself once again and cursed inwardly that he had shared his name with her. He continued his work, while Meg watched in silence.

"You will need papers, as well, seeing as no one is supposed to know your whereabouts." He shuffled the papers around and produced a fresh batch on top. "What should your new name be, Miss Meg Giry? Hmm? You're awake. You might as well be of use."

Not expecting to be included in any part of his future plans, Meg was caught off-guard and stared at him dumbfounded.

"Come now," he ordered. "I should like to finish these documents before we land in the Americas."

"Umm… I can't think, at the moment. It's a big decision to make." She smiled sadly. "As a child, it's always fun to imagine a new identity for yourself. But to actually commit to it…" She twirled a stray lock of hair between her fingers and looked up at the Phantom. "What name will you go by?"

"Danton Yelle," he replied brusquely. "Shall I choose a name for you, then?"

"No!" she shouted quickly, before covering her mouth. Erik gave her a look of warning. "I'm so sorry, it's just… I can do it. Please?"

He nodded and sat back to study her, as she thought.

"How about Angelique Moreau?" she offered.

"Not Angelique, Meg," he chided. "Too close to 'Angel' for my liking. Pick something else."

She frowned, not having seen the connection until he had pointed it out to her.

"Okay. Then…Melodie?"

He raised his visible eyebrow at her and shook his head. "Considering that you can barely carry a melody, I hardly think that is a fitting name for you. One more try, and then I will decide."

Meg felt the insult, again, but was determined to name herself.

"Adelina?"

Erik said nothing, but his eyes studied her intently, as if he was trying to picture her with her new name. Meg was certain that he would reject her third attempt and end up choosing something awful, just to spite her.

"Yes, that will suit you fine." He wrote the name _Adelina Moreau_ on her papers and finished them with a wax seal of "authenticity."

"So…" Meg started, unsure of how to word her question. "I have a new name and papers. Assuming you do not kill me before we disembark, who will Adelina Moreau be? Will I be your ward? Or will you let me go, once you have eluded the governing authorities?" _Please let him say that he'll let me go… please let him say that he'll let me go…_

"You will be my companion. And my ward, I suppose, as I will be taking care of you."

Meg frowned and looked away from him.

"For how long, _monsieur_?"

 _So,_ Erik mused, _we're back to formalities? Clearly she did not appreciate my answer._

"Until I am well-established in New York or wherever I choose to take up residence."

"But, why?" she pleaded. "Why do you need me with you? I will not unmask or identify you to anyone. You have already separated me from my mother, and we will both suffer for it. I have no means of getting back to France…why must I stay with you, after we land?"

Erik stood and walked over to the bed. Meg pulled her feet under her, but made no other movement. He caressed the side of her face with the back of his fingers. The sensual act caused her to blush and pull away. He moved one finger under her chin and directed her eyes to meet his.

"Because, Miss Giry, you are an asset. And, as I am without much of my fortune, I will need your services to help me acquire footing in a city in which I have no influence."

She quivered. "My…s-s-services? What-"

"You are a beautiful young lady, just ripe for the picking. When some businessmen will not be swayed by other persuasions, a nubile woman will always close the deal." He smirked down at her.

"No…" she whispered, her eyes welling with tears. "Please, you cannot mean to make a wh-whore of me! You cannot be so cruel! Please! Please! I beg you! Anything but that! I would rather die!"

"Shut up, girl!" he snarled. He released her chin, and listened at the door. He needed to make sure no one had heard her outbursts. Satisfied that they were still undiscovered, he turned back to her. She was not sobbing, but tears were running down her porcelain cheeks. "As I have mentioned before, your opinion does not matter to me. I am your guardian now. And, unless you can deprive your body of breath, there is no way you will be able to die without my permission."

Meg said nothing. Her tears dried in their tracks, as the futility of her situation fully sank in.

Content that she would not be any more trouble, Erik began to make preparations for their supper. He did not want her to be this difficult for the duration of the trip, but he was not sure what he needed to do to get her to resign herself to his whims.

He glanced back at her. She was staring at a spot on the door. _Probably trying to plan an escape. She had better not dare…_

Her eyes looked listless, though, not alert. She wasn't staring at the door; she was staring past it. Lamenting over lost freedom.

He had to force-feed her. She was acting childish, which infuriated him. If she was trying to starve herself, it wasn't going to work, because he wasn't going to allow it. After they had eaten, he cleaned the utensils and plates with bath water and dumped the dirtied water into a pipe that channeled the fluid out of the makeshift cabin.

By the time he had finished the cleanup, she was laying on the bed, again…facing the wall. He put the papers back into the box under the table, blew out the lantern, and removed his mask. He faced away from her. Once again, he waited until her breath slowed and became constant, before he finally yielded to his own fatigue. He had a bad feeling about what tomorrow would bring, but at least he did not dream.


	6. Creative Flow

Her dreams were twisted and malformed, much like the man that lay beside her. She had not slept soundly, after the conversation with Erik. Although she was afraid of him before, her fears were limited to being his captive and possibly another one of his murder victims. She had never believed she would be used for anything more.

The rope that tied her wrists together was still connected to the noose that lay limply around her neck. She could breathe easily, but the fibrous strands still itched where it met her skin. Being careful not to alter her weight on the makeshift bed, she attempted to rotate her hands in different directions. The testing of her restraints did absolutely nothing; she was too scared to try any harder. She could probably remove the rope from around her neck…but then another thought took precedence.

Acting on impulse, she pulled her wrists away from her body, which, in turn, pulled the noose taught. She paused and gauged the Phantom's breathing. His breath was still heavy.

She imagined herself back at the opera house, on the opening night of _Hannibal_. Her wrists had been chained then, too, but not in rope. The plastic chain that restricted the movement of the ballerinas had tried their patience, but the girls were pleased to be doing something different from their usual pointe routines. They were supposed to be slave girls…how ironic…

Her arms reached out for the last pose of the welcoming parade scene. She felt her throat constrict and forced herself to keep fantasizing that she was elsewhere. The chorus sang the last chord of the song, and she smiled at the memory of it.

She inhaled through her nose, but the act was superficial. No air could pass through. Her eyes began to water after a minute. Her body began to twitch, lightly at first. Then the movements became jerks, as her body fought against her will. She felt the bed move as the man next to her awoke from his slumber.

"Meg? Are you ill?" His voice was dense with sleep, and the words were mostly mumbled.

She did not answer, she could not answer. Her body continued to jerk, and she felt the weight of the Phantom shift toward her. His hand lightly touched her shoulder, attempting to determine her position and state. Panicked that he would stop her, she pulled tighter. She was no longer able to see the scenery or the costumes…or hear the chorus… Everything had faded into the black of the room. And now she was fading, too. Her head hurt.

His hands were on the noose, pulling it away from her neck as quickly as he could. She desperately tugged against him, wanting to be as far away from him as possible. She was becoming fully conscious again. Apparently the Phantom was also wide awake.

After he had slackened the rope around her neck, he used one of his hands to grab her wrists and clutched them to her chest. The other hand continued to loosen her noose. As soon as her body was able, it took in traitorous breaths. She gasped and her heart raced.

The Phantom freed her wrists and removed the noose from her neck. She heard the rope hit something and then slide down to the floor somewhere across their cabin. It was still pitch black. He let her go and turned away from her. A match struck, the lantern was lit, and the mask was retrieved and placed. She heard everything, but saw nothing. She coughed lightly into her pillow, still facing the wall.

"What did you think you were doing?" he hissed.

She still could not answer.

"You were going to take your life? Your life is forfeit! It is mine! Do you understand?"

His voice was hushed, but livid. She stopped coughing and watched his shadow flicker on the wall. Strong arms rolled her to face him, but she could barely make out his face. He was backlit, and, for the most part, the only thing that was entirely visible was his ghostly white mask.

"I asked you a question, Meg. You have no control. I told you to be obedient. Is this your idea of compliance?"

"I cannot…I will not," she whispered. Her voice was raspy from the abuse she had put it through. The Phantom fumed, but he waited patiently for her to finish. "I told you…I said…I would rather…die…"

"I don't care what you said, Ms. Giry," he hissed. "I have told you, now, that you are not _allowed_ to die."

Meg's eyes stared up at him pitifully. "Please, Erik… Please don't do this to me." With every second, her voice became stronger, more determined. "Whatever my mother did, _I_ do not deserve to be fashioned into a whore for your schemes."

"I never said I would force you into that type of service, if you recall correctly." His brow arched in defiance of her claims. He had not corrected her during their previous conversation, because he sought her submission through her fear of him. He never thought that she would attempt suicide as a result of her misunderstanding.

Meg was puzzled by his statement. She tried to replay the conversation in her head, but was unable to remember exactly what her captor had specifically alleged.

"But, you said-"

"I simply said, my dear," Erik interrupted, "that having a nubile creature, such as yourself, was an asset that would aid in my liaisons with businessmen." Meg frowned, still unsure of the Phantom's plan for her in New York. "I _never_ breathed a word about 'fashioning you into a whore', as you so crudely put it. That, dear Meg, was your own assumption."

The petite blonde sat up in the bed and rubbed her sore wrists. The angry red marks imprinted onto her skin were only temporary, but they would take considerable time to heal. She felt her neck and winced when pain surfaced there, as well. Erik eyed her delicate form.

"It will take a little over a week to heal," he said gently. "No serious damage has been done, so you should not feel any lingering effects."

She nervously put her hands in her lap and stared up at him. His face was no longer hardened. He was merely passive. He turned away from her and knelt down to retrieve more papers from below the table. Once he had seated himself on a crate, he began to write.

"Now that you have me wide awake, I may as well get some work done. Can you find something to occupy your time, Ms. Giry? Or would you like to go back to sleep?"

"I'm not tired, at the moment."

"Very well. Would you like some reading material? I have a few books with me."

"No, thank you."

He did not look up at her, once he had started writing. Meg watched as the mysterious man wrote at a quickened pace, sometimes crossing things out before continuing.

"Erik?"

"Yes?"

"What are you working on, now? Another opera?"

The Phantom sighed and laid down the quill. He looked up to the curious ballerina to address her directly.

"That is the second time you have asked that of me. No, I am not writing another opera." He hesitated, trying to reign in his emotion. He looked down at the scribbling on his paper. "I will never write another opera," he finished quietly.

She heard the despair in his voice and contemplated dropping the subject. Her inquisitive nature got the better of her, and she was unable to stop herself from continuing.

"Why?"

"You know why." He continued to write as if he were exploring all avenues of creativity. Sometimes he would latch onto an idea, circling it, before crossing it out and beginning anew.

"Why Danton Yelle, then?"

"Pardon?" He was becoming irritated at her barrage of questions.

"Why did you choose the name 'Danton Yelle'?"

"It's French, and my accent will not allow me to pass for any other nationality. It is also a strong, intimidating name."

Meg giggled but stopped when the Phantom looked sharply up at her. When she was silenced, he went back to his writing.

"Surely, there must be another reason? You could have chosen a great many names that were both French in origin and… intimidating." She smiled at the last word, but she did not laugh again.

Erik looked up and saw her curved lips realign themselves into a humbled countenance. He smiled back.

"Because my name will be better remembered by these Americans if I go by 'Mister Y'."

"'Mister Y'? I don't understand…"

"Americans do not use _monsieur_ or _mademoiselle_. They use 'mister' and 'miss' as formal titles. 'Mister Y' is a nod to their spelling of 'mystery'."

Meg's eyes were wide in understanding. "You speak English?"

"Of course, _mademoiselle_. Or, miss, I should say."

She frowned at her handicap. Erik would be able to speak English, and she would be unable to communicate with anyone, save for the random Frenchmen she could only hope she would encounter.

"Will you teach me, Erik? Please? I want to learn English."

Erik smirked sardonically at her. "I'm sure you do. Not being able to speak the native language will put you at a great disadvantage." She nodded and he shook his head at her. "You will learn in bits and pieces, when I deem it necessary."

She pouted prettily, but made no effort to instigate an argument over the matter.

The Phantom continued his work, concentrating on a new idea that was forming. He had run out of room on this particular piece of paper, so he crumpled it up and tossed it away. A new piece took its place, and he attempted to write at the same speed as his oncoming thoughts for a new type of entertainment.

"May I hear what you are writing about?"

The question halted his creative flow, and he sighed in dismay.

"You may, now that you have halted my progress."

Meg blushed and murmured an apology. He pushed the paper towards where she sat on the bed. She leaned over the table and examined what he had written.

" _Mister Y's Phantasma! – circus, stage, eclectic acts…tortured beauty, interactive displays… featured freaks? Use of illusory techniques…fanfare…"_ Small, rough sketches accompanied certain fragmented ideas: a stage with a banner that read "Mister Y's Phantasma" was at the top of the page; tall, pointed cylinders that stretched like pillars at the bottom of the sheet. Notes about different magician's tricks were listed alongside "illusory techniques."

She pondered what she read and passed the paper back to the Phantom.

"You're wanting to create a new show? This…Phantasma?"

"I am."

"But-" Meg stopped herself, scared to reveal what she knew.

"But what, Miss Giry?"

She bit her bottom lip in a nervous gesture. When she did not answer right away, Erik prodded her.

"I expect you to answer, when I ask you a question. I have been politely answering all of yours. 'But' what, Meg?"

"My mother, she told me…"

Erik's eyes narrowed at the mention of the woman he still despised. Sensing his anger building, Meg shut her mouth.

"What did she tell you?" His voice was laced with fury. If what she exposed made him angry, her silence would be multitudes worse.

"She told me that…you, when you were young….you were in a carnival of sorts. A traveling show of…um…odd acts that she helped you escape."

"How nicely you put it, dear Meg." His eyes went cold, as he stared at her. "I was practically raised in a sideshow, where I was one of the main 'odd acts.' The owner would usher paying attendees into the tent where my cage was housed. Through my burlap sack of a mask, I saw their confused faces look at my starved form. They saw a child in a mask. What could possibly make this particular act worth the money they had paid?"

A chill went up Meg's spine and she found that her eyes were unable to pull away from his glare.

"With a thick wooden stick, he beat me until I was at the center of the cage. Once I was in place for everyone to see, he removed my mask and called me 'the devil's child'. I had to listen to the horrified screams of the weak-willed women and the jeers of the sadistic men who threw their leftover scraps at me. As soon as the owner threw down my mask, I would quickly retrieve it and place it back over my hideous face."

Meg felt a tear make its way down her cheek, but she quickly brushed it away. She could tell that Erik desired no pity from her.

"One night, the night that your mother was in the audience, my abuser was less than vigilant about minding his surroundings. As he greedily picked through my straw bed for golden coins, I seized a rope that he had stupidly left unguarded. I strangled the life out of him with great satisfaction."

Before she was able to stop herself, Meg gasped at the Phantom's admission.

"When I looked up, I saw that your mother had remained behind. She had witnessed my actions, but she still pitied me. She stole me away from the sideshow and hid me in the bowels of the opera house. Was _that_ the story she told you?"

Meg shook her head. "No, _monsieur._ She just told me that you were in a sideshow, abused by the owner, and that she had brought you to the opera house when you were still a boy. She said that you were a genius…an architect, a designer, a magician, and a composer."

"How kind," he spat facetiously.

"She said the _Opera_ _Populaire_ had become your artistic domain and your playground…and that you had gone mad with the power you held over it."

Meg did not miss the surprise that registered on the Phantom's face. It was only there for a fraction of a second, but she saw it…the look of one betrayed. He looked away, and Meg breathed a sigh of relief at no longer being arrested in his gaze.

"Mad with power?" he repeated, softly. "I had no power. I had to watch a diva past her prime ruin magnificently written operatic arias. I was helpless to stop the exchange of directors, from one who respected my wishes to two who purposely defied my sage counsel. They ran my beloved _Opera Populaire_ into ruin, culminating on the night of my artistic debut. I could not prevent the woman I loved from leaving me for a man that will never know her or appreciate her talent the way that I do."

"But…why another sideshow, _monsieur_? Why would you want to subject others to the torment that you faced as a child?"

"It will not be 'another sideshow'," he stated, plainly. "Guests to my show will see that beauty lies underneath what appears to be madness and distortion."

He continued scribbling notes onto the paper. Meg had no more questions to ask, and she offered no suggestions. She simply watched as his ideas took form on a paper that would, eventually, be nothing more than a scrap of history that fueled a madman's dream.


	7. Novel Ideas

Although she admired his tenacity, Meg could no longer watch the Phantom work. When she asked for a book to read, he handed her a small basket that held some well-read novels.

" _Le Comte de Monte-Cristo_ … What is it about?"

"Revenge," Erik answered. His head was still down, still focused on his contemplations.

Meg put the novel down beside her and picked up the second title.

" _Les Miserables_? That sounds depressing. What is this one's theme?"

"Redemption," he clarified.

She placed that novel on top of the first. It may not have been as depressing as its title would suggest, but she did not desire a heavy read. She looked to the next book in the basket.

" _Madame Bovary…_ this looks better. What will I find in its pages?"

Erik could not contain the grin that appeared on his face. He had forgotten about that one. He chuckled lightly as he answered. "Disillusionment, to put it nicely."

The naïve ballerina placed the book to the side, perplexed by his reaction and vague response. There was just one more novel to choose from.

"Last one… _Notre-Dame de Paris_ … I've heard of this one, but I've never read it. What is this one about?"

The Phantom hesitated, unsure of how to encapsulate such a complicated story into one word.

"It's about misperceptions," he stated quietly. His head was still looking down at his paper, but he lifted his eyes to watch her.

She spread all four books out on the bed beside her. He observed as she placed _Madame Bovary_ back into the basket first, followed by _Les Miserables_. She studied the other two and chewed her lower lip. She looked over to him and he met her gaze. Surprisingly, she smiled, as if she was happy to find him paying attention to her.

"I am unable to choose between _Le Comte de Monte-Cristo_ and _Notre-Dame de Paris_. Which do you recommend?"

He leaned back from the table and crossed his arms. "What interests you more, revenge or misperceptions?"

"Neither. But, then again, your one-word summaries are hardly helpful." Her voice was teasing, so he smiled back at her.

"In that case, might I suggest reading the first page of each? You will find that one interests you more than the other, and your indecision will be cured."

"That's an attractive solution…thank you, Erik."

"You are welcome, Meg."

He watched her open _Notre-Dame de Paris_ and read the first page. When she was finished, she placed it on the bed and read from _Le Comte de Monte-Cristo_. She turned the page to continue reading, already engrossed in the story. He smiled at her choice and struggled to refocus on the idea that was beginning to flower within his mind.

Phantasma would be a combination of a circus, a sideshow, and a cabaret. He wanted the costumes, the lights, and the scenery to invigorate both the performers and the audience. A master of ceremonies, _un compère_ , would be needed. For a brief moment, he imagined himself in that role…but, no. There would be too much for him to do behind the scenes. There would be silly entertainment to appeal to the audience's need for humor, death-defying feats that would astonish them, and mystical acts that would leave the them confounded.

He looked up from the table again. Meg was still enthralled with her reading selection. _Where will she fit in?_

He wrote the words " _dance revue_ " on his page. She wasn't much of a singer, but, as he recalled, she could at least carry a tune. Next to " _dance revue_ " he wrote " _segue/filler_ ".

Unable to leave their cabin, Erik was incapable of gauging what time of day it was. He could hear the muffled movements of people, most likely workers, who went about their daily duties. Judging from the amount of noise, he guessed that it was still daylight. He assumed that nighttime would be quieter, as most of the crew would be asleep.

Getting up to stretch his weary legs, he crossed over to where the rope lay on the floor. He re-tied the noose, tugging on it to make sure it was secure, before coiling it up and hanging it on a loosened nail in the wooden wall.

When they were hungry, he prepared food. When Meg had to use a toilet, Erik waited outside for her to do her business in an empty bucket, which was then cleaned out with bath water and disposed of down the pipe. Every time he stood outside, he took the rope with him, just in case someone happened to walk by. Meg, however, was not allowed to leave the cabin under any circumstances. During those awkward moments, she would turn away and sit as far away from him as possible, with her hands over her ears. A small vial of a very potent floral-scented oil served to freshen the air.

When Meg could no longer keep her eyes open, she searched for something to use to mark her place. The crumpled up paper from the Phantom's previous writings was still lying on the floor. She crossed behind him and picked it up. He watched as she unfolded it and read what it contained. Her curiosity sated, she nimbly tore a small section of the paper and placed it into the novel. She looked at him, unsure of what to do with the rescued paper.

He took it from her hands, recrumpled it, and threw it back to the corner she in which she had found it. She laid the book beside his paper on the table, and situated herself on the bed.

After a short while, Erik put the quill down and put out the light. Once his mask was safely positioned on top of the novel, he, too, lay down. He turned to face Meg, who faced the cabin wall. He placed an arm over her and pulled her body to his.

The young girl's body immediately went rigid at the intimate contact.

"Wh-what are you doing?" her voice wavered.

"The last time we slept, I awoke to you attempting suicide. I will not allow you to do that to me, again. I need my sleep, as do you. Neither of us can afford to fall ill on this voyage, so I suggest you accept the consequence to your little stunt and make the best of this."

"I was upset! I-I had misunderstood you! I pr-promise you that I will not do anything like that again!"

"Hush!" he commanded. "You may have discovered, Meg, that I am not the type of person to negotiate. As I said before, you will obey me or pay the consequences. Do you really want for me to make this worse?"

"No," she assented.

"Fine, it is settled. Now, go to sleep."

She frowned in the darkness at her weak compliance. The arm that encased her and the body that it belonged to _were_ warm. The heat and her exhaustion eventually caused her to fall into a deep sleep.

Behind her, Erik inhaled the faint perfume in her hair as he began to dream.

_He was waiting in the graveyard. He knew, eventually, that Christine would find her way to her father's grave. Snow blanketed the earth and stone around him, silencing most of the usual sounds. Christine slowly made her way past the lonely gravestones, singing a plaintive lullaby to someone. Herself? Her father? Perhaps her Angel of Music?_

_He prepared himself, knowing that luring Christine to come with him would be a delicate endeavor. He stilled, fighting of the anxiousness of his body. She arrived at her father's crypt and laid the flowers she had brought on the snow-covered ground._

"… _help me say goodbye." Her voice was especially crisp and haunting in the quiet atmosphere._

" _Wandering child, so lost, so helpless, yearning for my guidance…"_

_Christine suddenly looked up to where his voice had come from. Her brow furrowed in distrust, but she did not run away._

" _Angel or father? Friend or Phantom? Who is it there, staring?"_

_He gently sang a response, and felt satisfaction as their voices once again intertwined seamlessly. She was his. He stepped out from the shadows of the crypt and beckoned for her to come to him. As if under a spell, she slowly walked toward his outstretched hand._

" _I am your angel, come to me: Angel of Music…"_

" _NO!" Another woman's voice rang out across the cemetery. The Phantom cast a quick glance at the intruder and saw a flash of blonde hair running toward them. He returned his eyes to Christine, keeping her hypnotized and under his power._

" _I am your Angel of Music, come to me: Angel of Music…"_

_The petite blonde grabbed her friend from behind and pulled Christine away from him._

" _Christine!" she shook her. "Whatever you may believe, this man is NOT your father! And he is NOT your angel!"_

 _Enraged, the Phantom pushed Christine to the side and drew his sword. With his beloved out of the way, he could see Meg in her entirety. She wore the leggings and boots that he had kidnapped her in, after_ Don Juan Triumphant _. The blouse was the same, too, white and billowing in the light breeze. She should have been freezing, but she was strangely calm. She grabbed the rapier at her belt and faced him._

_Christine fled from the graveyard, not bothering to wait and see the outcome of their duel. He was mildly displeased at her disregard, but he would see her later. After he had taught her friend a lesson._

_They circled each other in the open space leading up to the Daae tomb. He lunged at her and she dodged as best as she could. His blade barely skimmed her shoulder, but it was enough to draw first blood. He stepped back and smiled victoriously, as her faced paled at the red that was slowly seeping out. The blade had cut her blouse, too, and her top now hung askew on her shoulders._

_She regrouped and ran around the closest gravestone, using it as a barrier. He laughed at her pathetic attempt to shield herself from him and he let his sword crash on top of the stone sculpture. She jumped at the loud noise and he laughed again. She fled toward the front gate, realizing that she was dreadfully outmatched._

_He followed her and she ran faster. Looking over her shoulder to see how much space lay between them, she tripped over a tree root and fell into the snow. Her rapier flew out of her hands and disappeared into a bank of white. She cried out in pain and turned over to back away from him. He stood over her, using his body to intimidate her, while she struggled to crawl further toward the gate and her imagined freedom. As she did so, her blouse finally gave in to the abuse and displayed one of her perfect shoulders in a provocative way._

_He grabbed the back of her neck and pulled her up to him. The fear in her eyes seemed to excite him further. He dragged her back to the steps of the Daae crypt and lay her down. Crouching down over her, he ripped the rest of her top away from her lithe frame and bent down to kiss her._

_She resisted, at first, but then seemed to relent to his advances. He grabbed at the laces of her corset and undid them frantically, still occupying her mind with the sensual kiss they shared. When her breasts were exposed to the night air, he groped at one with his gloved hand and bent his head down to suckle the other. He heard her cry out in seduced pleasure, unable or unwilling to fight him any longer. He moved his mouth to the cut on her shoulder and kissed it tenderly, in apology. Her eyes met his and her hands reached for his face…_

Erik flinched away from the Meg in his dream and woke. The true Meg gave a slight whimper at the stirring and then settled back to sleep. His body was still cradling hers. He reflected on the parts of the dream that he remembered.

He recalled that he was in a graveyard…shades of white and grey… _was Christine there? I don't remember…_ a fight, red against white…and the ending. He recollected the ending with perfect clarity. He was kissing and groping Meg, who had somehow found her way into his dream. She was reaching for his face and he pulled away, fearing that she was actually reaching for his mask.

It was another damned dream featuring Meg.

He continued to hold her, thanking higher powers that she could not detect his arousal against her buttocks. Forcing his body to calm down, he thought about Phantasma and imagined new acts for its opening weekend. He eventually fell back asleep, and the dreams that followed were of the show he hoped to create.


	8. Heightened Tension

The first week of their voyage was relatively uneventful. There were a few tense moments, when sounds from outside of their cabin would suddenly be very audible. In every case, the worker would pass by, unaware that he was crossing the path of stowaways.

Every time they slept, Erik's arm would encircle Meg's thin waist. Because his arm had never strayed from its original position, she had become accustomed to their nightly routine.

During their time together, they had made polite conversation. Meg had resigned herself to being under Erik's control. He may have kidnapped her to punish her mother, but he showed no desire to abuse her directly. While she was imprisoned in the cabin, there was nothing she could do to escape. When they reached New York, however…

Mid-week, Meg demanded to be able to bathe. Erik showed her the basin and pulled a rag from the box under the table. He gave her five minutes to wash herself, before he would re-enter the room. He took the lasso out with him, as always, and Meg washed as quickly as she possibly could. When Erik returned, she was redressed and feeling much refreshed.

At the end of the week, Meg finished _Le Comte de Monte-Cristo_ , and Erik stopped his planning to speak with her about it at length.

"Did you like it, Meg?"

The young girl had never read a fictitious novel. Her studies and ballet took up the majority of her time. Besides, her mother would never have permitted her to read anything like this, if the ballet matron knew what the story contained.

"I…liked it. It was confusing. So many people in such twisted relationships. And I wonder why Mercedes and Edmond could not be together, in the end?"

"They were no longer the same young couple that had dreamt of a life together. She understood that Dantes would always care for her, but that their forcing a relationship would only remind them of their time apart. Haydee was written for that purpose."

"For what purpose?"

"To serve as his hope for a new life, unblemished by his painful past."

She looked away from him and contemplated that.

"I see why you find this story intriguing, Erik."

"Do you? Why is that?"

"You are Dantes. You feel wronged by the _Opera_ _Populaire_ , betrayed by…Christine, and cheated out of the future you were apparently trying to secure for yourself."

He leaned away from her, sitting on the crate, and studied her. The girl was shrewder than he had assumed.

"You took your revenge against those you deemed at fault; _monsieurs_ Andre and Firmin, Carlotta, Buquet, the Vicomte, my mother…you hurt them in the most painful way you could."

Erik stared at Meg, giving no response.

"But, like Edmond, you realized that, somewhere in your dealings, you crossed a line," she scrutinized him back, trying to see the world from his eyes. "And you finally felt regret. But only when it came to Christine. You let her go," she pointed out. "Your need for revenge resurfaced when you saw me in your lair."

He nodded slowly, silently.

"So, then…does that make me Haydee?"

The Phantom's eyes widened at the comparison. Before he could control his outburst, he scoffed at her inference.

"Hardly, my dear. Haydee was a slave that Dantes purchased to ensure her protection. His plans may have included using her against Fernand, but his motives toward her were not vengeful in nature."

"But he didn't let her go," she contested.

"Only because she had nowhere _to_ go. He kept her, as a ward, so that she would not fall into ruin. As she matured, his love for her grew from a guardian, to a friend, and, finally, to a lover." His voice faltered, grasping the similarities between Dante's love for Haydee and his love for Christine.

Meg sighed at their difference in viewpoints. "I just thought it was sad. So many people died, all to sate the vengeful purposes of one man. Was there no other route for Edmond to take?"

"He didn't believe so. His life was stolen from him, and he felt justified in avenging what he had lost. He could not allow those who had wronged him to prosper from the result of their wicked deeds."

Meg studied him and he stared back at her. The spirit of the fictional Edmond Dantes was present in the gleam of the Phantom's eyes. She replaced the book in the basket and fished out the copy of _Notre-Dame de Paris_.

He left her to the new novel and began preparations for their meal. Reflecting on the ending of _Le Comte de Monte-Cristo_ , he found that his memory of what had occurred was muddled. He remembered being dissatisfied with the ending, skimming though it quickly when there was no more talk of revenge. Returning to the table, he retrieved the book from the basket and turned to the last page.

He read as Dantes fled from the island with Haydee, inspired by the love he had found for her. Jacopo dutifully delivered Dantes' final letter, addressed to Maximilian. The boy read the heart-warming letter, while Valentine stood beside him. The final words were Valentine's quoting of the Count's closing remarks.

"… _all human wisdom is summed up in two words,_ " he read to himself. "' _Wait and hope._ '"*

He frowned at the flimsy sentiment and returned the book to the basket.

After he had turned away from her to arrange their food, Meg looked up at him and smiled. Peripheral vision had allowed her to watch the Phantom read the sentimental last thoughts of the novel she had just finished. Truth be told, the ending had been her favorite part. _Wait and hope_ , she thought. _And so I shall._

The muffled sounds outside of their cabin had a rather predictable pattern. Once the day workers' shifts had concluded, the noise level would increase as they made their exit. The night crew was the bare minimum of what was needed to keep the ship functioning and on course; their duties barely made enough ruckus to be noticeable.

Hearing the change in the atmosphere, the two prepared themselves for bed. Meg turned to the wall and Erik soon took his place next to her, in the darkness. He pulled her body into his and wrapped his arm about her.

They had barely settled into position when an unfamiliar noise clamored toward their cabin. Stifled giggles flitted through the air, toward the wall they faced, followed by a man's jovial voice.

"Come back here, Giselle! You won't evade me so easily!"

Meg tensed in the Phantom's arms, and he held her tightly to restrict her movement.

"Shhhh…" he whispered into her ear. It was a warning. She stilled and made no sound.

"Easily?" the girl, Giselle, responded. "Evading your roaming hands is _never_ easy!" The girl giggled again, and the unnamed man presumably caught up to her.

Erik and Meg were forced to listen to the sounds of the amorous couple, as they kissed on the other side of the wall.

"Oh, Henri!" Giselle exclaimed.

"Shush," her lover, Henri, ordered. "If we're found down here, I'll be fined. Possibly suspended from duty."

"That would be no great loss. My father is a businessman in the Capitol. He can find you a job and then we can be together!"

"Er, yes, that would be…something," Henri faltered. "Or, you could just be quieter, so that I am not expelled from the crew."

They heard her giggle, again, as he kissed her and pushed her against the wall. Erik heard the familiar sounds of fabric rustling, snaps being undone. He tried to concentrate on Phantasma, of the ideas he would soon bring to fruition. Meg blushed when she heard the excited moans coming from the passionate affair.

"Mmmm… You're off-duty right now, anyway," Giselle contested. "How much trouble could you possibly get into?"

"Never you mind," answered her partner. "Being with you will be worth the exhaustion I will feel, come morning. And speaking of exhaustion, it's time I exhausted you, my sweet. If I can leave you breathless, perhaps you will stop your incessant talking and use your mouth for something more…constructive."

"Do try your best, then, good sir!"

The silly girl gasped at something, and the sounds of their busy lips and wandering hands gave way to the strains of their love-making. Henri took her against the shared wall, and the Phantom was unable to focus on anything non-sexual. He held a beautiful young girl in his arms, and he had not indulged his carnal appetite for weeks. For a moment, he thought about pulling away from Meg to right himself; but he still did not trust her to remain quiet.

Meg was incredibly uncomfortable in her present state. Erik was too close. She was too warm. Something was wrong. She felt a hardness pressing at her behind and was terrified when she realized what it was.

Outside, the couple climaxed in unison, with the girl's cries being muffled by what they could only assume was her lover's hand. Their panting eventually subsided and their conversation continued.

"Now," Henri started, "I shall escort you back to your room. If anyone stops us, just tell them that you got lost on the ship and I was helping you to find your way. If you cannot manage that, then just look at me and I shall speak for you. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Giselle acknowledged. "I'm so glad we met, Henri! This voyage would have been so lonely without you! When shall we meet again?"

"Alas," the young sailor replied. "I'm not sure of when I'll be able to steal away from my bunk. I can't exactly go missing every night."

The girl whimpered. "Why not?"

"Now, now…I'm sure we'll see each other again. Let me escort you back, and we shall make plans the very next time our paths cross. Come, it's time to go."

The footsteps of the young couple became more and more faint, as they disappeared back to where they had come from. Both Meg and the Phantom breathed a sigh of relief. He still held Meg closer to his body than usual, but he did not attempt to distance himself or hide his arousal.

They both stayed awake for a while, after their unintentional eavesdropping. Erik felt Meg's breath deepen and even out. His arousal had diminished, for the time being, but he was unsure how long he would be able to endure not having the satisfaction of erotic release. In time, he fell asleep, as well.

_The mask he wore was unfamiliar, but it fit comfortably enough. And it served to make him seem even more intimidating to the masquerade guests around him._

_He had watched from the top of the stairway, hidden in the shadows, as Christine danced with her fiancé in the grand foyer of the opera house. No expense had been spared, on the part of Andre and Firmin. They had turned the lobby of the building into an opulent ballroom. The colors were mostly shades of white, black, gold, and silver. Christine wore a pink dress, and she certainly stood out in the crowded room._

_Arriving late to the party, the owners entered with their dates. The two ladies that accompanied them were much younger and looked to be part of the ballet chorus. Andre and Firmin were then joined by Carlotta, Piangi, Madame Giry, and Meg. The Phantom slowly made his way down the staircase, towards the group, to listen to their conversation. Without any theatrics to announce his presence, the crowd simply accepted him as one of the many invitees._

_The six of them all seemed to talk at once, sometimes speaking in twos or threes. They were congratulating each other on the masquerade's success, the attendees around them, and…his absence. No more notes, no more ghost. Erik wanted to laugh, but his attention was sequestered by the young Giry._

_She gracefully made her way to the bottom of the stair and stood at the bannister to watch the festivities. He could not tell exactly what she was supposed to be, but her costume was the most fetching in the room. Her golden hair was curled and piled atop her head in an elegant fashion, with thin white filoplumes joined into a simple white headdress. The feathers swayed with whatever movement her head made. Her costume was the purest white, with a neckline that left little to the imagination. It was lined in feathers, as well, and small wings were attached to her back. She was either an angel or a bird…perhaps a crossbreed. She was lovely._

_He made his way down and stood behind her, breathing her scent. She smelled so…fresh…like clean linens and sprigs of lavender. He had not envisioned this in his plan for the masquerade, but it would only be a small detour._

" _Would you honor me with a dance, my lady?"_

_She spun to face him, immediately after hearing his voice. Her surprised visage wavered. He imagined that the skull mask on his face and his red attire did not cause the young woman to feel safe in his presence. He smiled reassuringly at her and she finally nodded._

_He led her to the opposite end of the room, as far away from her mother as he could get. If Meg noticed, she said nothing. He gently placed one hand on her waist in a proper manner, while the other clasped her mirrored hand. She hesitated before resting her free hand on his broad shoulder. He had no passion for dancing, but it was a necessity in most aspects of theatrical performance. She, of course, was a wonderful dancer, which made him enjoy their waltz more than he had thought possible._

_She stared at him as they swayed to the music. She wore no mask, so he supposed that she was trying to figure out his identity. He smiled and shook his head._

" _Why do you shake your head at me, monsieur?"_

" _You are trying to figure out who I am, Miss Giry, but you will not be successful. Not yet, anyway."_

" _You know who I am?"_

" _Of course." Over her shoulder, he could see Madame Giry in her geisha attire, searching the room. He smoothly moved them behind the staircase, into the hallway, away from her mother's prying eyes. There were couples dancing in the hall, as well. The lobby could only hold so many._

" _I am surprised, then, that you would ask me to dance," she posed._

" _Why is that?"_

" _My mother is very strict with me. With my interactions, as well. If you know me, then you must know my over-protective mother."_

" _Of course," he repeated._

" _Thank you for asking," she smiled up at him, and he returned the gesture._

" _Thank you for consenting."_

_They did not speak, again, until their dance concluded. The couples broke apart to applaud the orchestra and Erik led her back to the main foyer. Before leaving her, he kissed her hand and bowed, never taking his eyes away from hers. She blushed at the affection._

" _Please tell me who you are, monsieur."_

" _Not yet, Meg. But soon."_

_She frowned and he turned away from her, making his way back to the top of the stairway. He retrieved his composition from behind a curtain, along with the satchel of flash powder and his sword. When he turned to face the room, he saw his blonde dancer back at her mother's side. Christine and the Vicomte were still dancing, happily oblivious to the world around him. Oblivious to the hurt they had inflicted upon him. He steeled himself and stepped out into the light._

_This time, a veil of malice preceded him. The crowd parted in fear, sensing that a dangerous man was in their midst. Everything and everyone went silent. He slowly stomped down the stairs, his heavy footfalls keeping time like a metronome. It was a menacing tempo, meant to threaten anyone unfortunate enough to be in his way._

" _Why so silent, good messieurs? Did you think that I had left you for good?"_

_His questions were aimed at the despicable owners. They cowered in fear of him._

" _Did you miss me, good messieurs? I have written you an opera!"_

_He continued toward them, throwing the parcel that contained his score onto the ground in front of them. He belittled Carlotta and Piangi, before returning his ire to the owners. When he saw Christine, he froze, making himself remain detached. He complimented her voice, the voice HE had trained. She quivered under his gaze, as he neared her. He not so subtly suggested that she return to him for further instruction. Her beloved Vicomte was oddly missing from her side._

_When he ousted himself as her vocal teacher, she smiled wistfully at him. He was caught off guard, but he let his eyes wander about her face, her neck…to the ring that taunted him, which sat right above her breast. Near her heart._

_He grabbed it and tore it from her body._

" _Your chains are still MINE!" he sang, as he held his fist that contained the symbol of her engagement up in defiance. She backed away from him. "You belong to ME," he hissed._

_He ran back up the stairs and grabbed for the small satchel at his side. The crowd parted for him, falling back to the railings on either side. Once he reached the center of the landing, he threw the flash powder down. The loud noise and white smoke masked his descent through a trapdoor. He withdrew his sword and retreated behind one of the many mirrors that formed a circle under the opening. If Christine's lover was to follow him, he would be ready._

" _No, Raoul! You mustn't!"_

" _Out of my way, Meg!"_

" _Please! Stop! He'll kill you….AHHHHHHH!" He heard a piercing scream and watched as a blonde angel fell into his trap. The trapdoor shut immediately after, but he could still hear muffled cries of confusion and worry._

_Meg lay on the ground, unconscious. He was astounded. The Vicomte was supposed to follow him. Not…her._

_He sheathed the sword and made his way over to her. He removed one of his gloves and placed a finger underneath her nose. She was breathing, faintly. That was a good sign. He put the glove back on and waited._

_Marguerite found her way to her daughter in record time. He stepped away from Meg, who was still prostrate on the floor._

" _What have you done?" Her eyes accused him of her daughter's current state. She ran to her daughter's side and listened for her heartbeat. Placated that Meg was in no mortal danger, she calmed down and looked back at him._

" _I did nothing to your precious daughter, madame. It was supposed to be the Vicomte following me."_

" _It was," the ballet mistress angrily confirmed. "He ran toward the entrance to pursue you, passing my daughter. She tried to stop him, but he shook her off. When she attempted to pull him back, he spun around to face her and the momentum caused her to fall in."_

" _That was not MY doing," he countered._

" _This is ALL your doing." Her normally sophisticated face was contorted in anger. "What have you done?"_

**Author's note: * the line quoted is, indeed, the final line of Alexandre Dumas'** _**The Count of Monte Cristo** _ **.**


	9. Wretched Memories

**Warning: this is a dark chapter that deals with dark subject matter. Please keep in mind that I rated this story "M" for mature content. Following my disclosure, you are now reading on voluntarily.**

Erik was pulled from his lucid dream by Meg's whimpers. He still clutched her tightly. Possibly too tightly, for her comfort. He loosened his grip and her complaints subsided.

Every aspect of his dream was still fresh within his mind. He knew that the actual events of the masquerade had varied drastically from the occurrences in his dream. He had not approached Meg, let alone danced with her. He had noticed her that night, perhaps even appreciated her beauty, but there was no interaction. After his escape through the trapdoor, true to his expectation, it was the Vicomte who had followed him into the circle of mirrors, not Meg.

He had had no intention of challenging the Vicomte to a fair fight. As a nobleman, he would be well-versed in most forms of swordplay. Luckily, the Phantom had no scruples about skewing the playing field. He hid behind the mirrors, and then released a lever that caused them to rotate. His form appeared and disappeared from multiple spots, confusing the young man. A noose dropped into the Vicomte's line of sight to act as a final warning: stay out of the Phantom's way, or your death come swiftly.

Erik's dreams were replays of his times at the Opera Populaire, with one major exception: the endings were rewritten to feature Meg.

His body acknowledged her curves aligning with his strong form, as his mind drifted to the memory of the tryst that had just occurred outside their cabin. He lightly nuzzled her neck to smell her smooth skin. She smelled wonderful. When that small act garnished no response, he decided to proceed with his exploration of her.

With a feather-light touch, he stroked the thin material that covered her arm; he traced a line from her wrist to her bared clavicle, watching for any response from the maiden. She still did not stir. He let his fingertips brush against her bare skin, delighting in how soft she was. He paused at her neckline and listened for her steady breathing.

If Meg had any idea of what was going on, her mind had already factored the strange sensations into her dream's world. She did not react to any of Erik's gentle ministrations.

Emboldened by his stealth, he allowed his hand to reach down, into her blouse, and softly caress each of her breasts. For a ballerina, her bosom was rather large. He was sure every man that had ever attended one of the Opera's performances had noticed the unusually curvy ballet dancer in appreciation. Recalling his dream of their duel, he imagined being able to take one of her nipples into his salivating mouth, as his dream self had done; he bit his lip in frustration.

Rousing from her deep sleep, Meg began to whine at the sensations that had been building. Erik stopped his attentions momentarily, merely cupping one of her ample breasts. When her whining had subsided, he deftly removed his wandering hand and placed it on her small buttocks. Some sage voice inside him warned him to cease his affection, but he was unwilling to heed the advice.

He let his fingers glide down her buttocks to the apex of her thighs. Meeting some resistance, he pushed through her closed legs and groped her crevice through her pants.

The act seemed to trigger a violent response in her, and she sat upright in fear. Erik refused to relinquish his contact with her, but he did not advance further.

"N-n-no! No, no, no! Please…don't…please stop!"

Erik pulled away from her and put his mask on in the dark. With practiced ease, he struck a match and lit the lantern by their bedside. With the room now bathed in light, he turned back to Meg. Her arms clutched her body protectively, with one hand cupping her neck and the other crossed over and clasping her opposite shoulder. Tear-filled eyes watched the Phantom with distrust and alarm.

He had crossed the line. And he knew it. He didn't want to take her forcefully; he had never done _that_ to a woman. It was detestable, even to his ambiguous moral code.

"I apologize, Miss Giry. That was untoward of me."

She looked down at her crossed arms and said nothing.

"Having a beautiful young woman beside me every night has been more tempting than you know. To you, I am the Phantom, but I am also just a man. I crave pleasure in all forms…including sexual. That does not mean I should have acted upon my lust."

Her shoulders shook and tears began to fall. He did not understand her strong reaction.

"Are you unwell, Meg?"

She looked up at him in sorrow, unsure of how to respond.

"I-I…"

Her voice halted. He made no move to speak over her. Instead, he allowed her space, leaving the bed and sitting atop one of the crates on the opposite side of the room. He patiently waited for her to collect himself.

"I thought…you were _him_. I was dreaming, I was back at the Opera House…but then he pulled me into the wings, and…oh, God…I felt…"

Perplexed by her rambling, he sought to understand what, exactly, had frightened her. Had it been something besides his roving hands?

"Who are you talking about? Me?"

Meg shook her head brusquely.

"Someone else, then. What happened? Did something happen to you, Meg?"

She inhaled deeply, seeking to calm her anxiety. After she exhaled, her heart finally began to relax from its frantic beating. Erik could tell that she did not wish to explain her fear, but he had to know.

"Meg," he said in an authoritative tone. "What happened?"

"The man you killed…" she started. "Joseph Buquet, the stagehand?"

"Yes, I remember him. What did he do to you?"

"It started when I was fourteen. He hated my mother. I think he had always hated her. She was always lecturing him and questioning his work. She was only trying to make sure that our surroundings were safe. Perhaps, because she knew she could not control you, she attempted to control him."

Erik lifted his visible brow in response.

"I was so young…" she stared off into the corner, flooded by memories. "One night, I had been practicing in one of the rehearsal rooms. I was by myself. My mother had admonished me on my technique earlier that day, and I was eager to live up to her high expectations." She smiled at her younger self's determination.

"When I was too tired to continue, I left for my dorm. On the way, I encountered Buquet. I could tell he was drunk, and I tried to avoid him. But he saw me. I tried to pass, but he grabbed my shoulder and pulled me back to him. He spouted off angry words. He told me I was 'the daughter of that sourly bitch'. Then he said that I had 'blossomed into a pretty little flower'. I pled with him to let me go, but he just laughed. He pushed me up against the wall and roughly kissed down my neck and chest. I tried to scream, but his hand muted me. He pushed a shoulder into me and used his other hand to push between my legs. I was able to roll against the wall, away from him, and he was too drunk to be able to catch me, as I ran for my dorm."

She looked back at Erik, whose face was both appraising and pitying her. He did not speak, and his jaw clenched.

"After that night, I was careful to never be alone. I avoided him as much as possible, considering we still had to work on the same stage. Still, he would pinch my buttocks as I waited in the wings. He did it to all the girls. Some of them actually _liked_ the attention…" she spat the last words out in disgust.

"He would tell us stories, mostly about you, the Opera Ghost. I think he liked having so many young girls around him. But he especially wanted me."

She paused, hesitant to divulge the next chapter. "Do you remember Yvette?"

The Phantom furrowed his brow and shook his head.

"She was in the corps, too. She had long straight blonde hair, but it was more of a strawberry shade than my own. We were great friends…although she was always a bit wilder than me. When we were sixteen, he started to pay more attention to her. I was relieved that I was no longer his target, but I worried for my friend.

He invited her to stop by his room. He said that he would give her a bottle of wine, if she did so. She told me later that he had told her to bring me, as well. Yvette was naïve enough to believe him, but she did not invite me. She probably feared my disapproval."

Meg smiled wistfully.

"After rehearsal one night, she decided to take him up on his offer. She told me that she would meet me later with a surprise. I waited for her in our room, but I eventually fell asleep. When I awoke, she was sitting on her bed, glaring hatefully at me. I asked her what I had done, and she told me what had occurred that last night.

She had arrived at Buquet's room, intending to receive the bottle of wine promised. She thought she might flirt with him a bit, to see if he would give her a second bottle. He invited her in and told her that the wine had to be kept a secret, as no one would approve of him giving spirits to an unsupervised young girl. She agreed and went to grab the bottle from his hand, but he pulled away. He demanded that she drink some of it there, with him. I guess he told her that it was a security measure, for him. If she left with no alcohol in her system, she could easily take the bottle straight to my mother and accuse him. If she had already drunk some of the wine, he could more easily dismiss her claims. So, she did.

Apparently, he had drugged it. She said she felt as if she was in a trance. He lay her down on his bed, feigning concern for her, even as he started to strip her of her clothing. He told her he was disappointed that she hadn't brought me, but that he would make the best of the situation. She was unable to stop him as he raped her over and over again, through the night, while calling her by my name."

New tears began to fall where the old ones had dried. Meg barely registered them.

"Yvette told me that it should have happened to me. That she had been punished in my stead. I tried to explain that he was attempting to do the same to me, abusing me for my mother's actions, but she refused to listen. Later that day, she left without saying goodbye. I have no idea where she fled to…or if she's even alive…

After his night with Yvette, he once again focused on me. He was always staring at me, trying to approach me in the wings. For the first dress rehearsal of _Hannibal_ , the night that Monsieur Lefevre announced his retirement, I had forgotten a key part of my costume in the dressing room. I left the stage and returned to the room, but I was not alone.

As I pinned the missing sash to my waist, Buquet grabbed me from behind and stared into my eyes in the mirror. I struggled against him, but he just smiled and spun me around to face him. He kissed me, and I can still taste the acrid smell of his breath. He thrust his groin against me, moaning and groping around my clothed body. He told me that he would not stop until he had me fully, and, even then, he would most likely still want me.

Thankfully, I heard my mother's voice, as she rapped on the door. She scolded me for being absent from stage, and I used the opportunity to stomp as hard as I could on his foot. He grunted in pain and let me go. I ran out the door and onto the stage as quickly as my feet would carry me. I tried to pretend that it hadn't happened…and that I hadn't heard him."

Erik sat as still as possible, but he was fuming on the inside. The only indications that he was not relaxed were his tense jaw and hard eyes. He swallowed and reminded himself to adopt a calm tone. He did not need to scare her further.

"The night that I returned Christine, we passed the stagehand as he entertained some of the chorus and corps girls. We were not seen, as we were in the shadows, but I saw him. I made Christine pause, when I heard him describing me in the most horrific way possible. He depicted me as an even more hideous version of my deformed self."

Meg sat, looking down. She was listening to the Phantom's story, but she was also still reflecting on her own experiences.

"I watched him as he mocked me. Your mother finally put a stop to it, but I was unwilling to let him soil my reputation. At that moment, he had solidified himself as my next victim. And I knew that no one would miss him, once he was gone."

He stood and walked toward the blonde beauty. When he had reached her, he gently used his hand to lift her chin toward his waiting gaze. She stared pitifully up at him, without any more tears to display.

"If I had known, I would have ended his miserable existence much sooner."

She flinched in his hand. Joseph Buquet's murder had been a tragic affair, regardless of his past transgressions. She supposed that Erik's words were meant to be reassuring.

"I am very sorry, Meg. I truly am."

She nodded, forcing a tight smile to form at her lips. He studied her, then let go of her chin and stepped back.

"Now, it is still early, and I am sure the both of us are quite exhausted. Let's go back to bed."

Not wishing to argue with him, she resignedly lay back down and turned over to face the wall. She held her breath, anticipating the Phantom's arm to eventually drape over her. The light was snuffed out; in the darkness, she heard the familiar sound of Erik's mask being removed and placed on the table. He lay down beside her. But he did not turn toward her or put his arm around her.

They slept facing away from each other. Meg's quality of sleep was worsened, but she could not fathom why.


	10. Altered States

Meg was cold. She pulled her arms into her chest and struggled to fall back asleep. Beside her, Erik twitched and jerked in his spot. He still faced away from her, and he was clearly having a fitful dream.

Her discomfort would not allow her to find repose. She hesitated, needing to feel the warmth that she had quickly grown accustomed to. Cautiously, she turned her body over to face his; she scooted herself closer to him, without actually touching, and sighed in relief as she finally relaxed.

Erik's body seemed to respond to Meg's proximity. His spastic movements subsided.

_Fury rolled through him in waves, as he watched the diva "la Carlotta" parade around in the ridiculous pink dress. Messieurs Andre and Firmin had directly disobeyed his casting orders._

_Christine played the part of the mute pageboy well. Her expressions were perfectly exaggerated, her mannerisms masculine in the most comical way. But it was not the role she was meant to fill._

_Everything would be made right in due time. He had made sure of that._

_He entered Box Five, his usual viewing spot, only to find it already occupied. And not just anyone sat in his booth…it was the damned Vicomte. He exited as quickly and quietly as he had entered, not wishing to face Raoul at that time. Once he was at the top of the auditorium, on the balcony of the dome, he called out._

" _DID I NOT INSTRUCT THAT BOX FIVE WAS TO BE LEFT EMPTY?"_

" _He's here, the Phantom of the Opera!"_

_His eyes darted down to the stage, where Meg stood stiffly and stared back up at him. How could she see him? He was supposed to be mostly hidden by the large crystal chandelier…_

" _It's him!" His songbird confirmed her friend's statement. It was not said in fear, but amazement. He longed to be nearer to her._

" _YOUR part is SILENT…little toad!" Carlotta appeared to be mostly unruffled by the Phantom's voice. That was most unwise._

" _A toad, madam?" The Phantom answered her softly, to himself. "Perhaps it is_ you _who are the toad."_

_He watched with satisfaction as she took the spritzer from her assistant and coated her throat with the substance he had switched it with. She handed it back and did a couple of vocal exercises; when she was ready, she made her way back to the center of the stage and nodded at the conductor. The cheerful music started over._

" _Poor fool he makes me laugh, ha ha ha ha ha! Ha-HUAAH! HUAAHH!"_

_The Phantom couldn't help but wince at the awful sound that echoed in the theatre. The concoction had worked better than he had anticipated._

_The audience became agitated at the confusion onstage. Ladies fanned themselves profusely and twittered to their companions. The men shook their heads and joined in on the conversations around them. As the Phantom left the balcony, he heard the voices of the owners assuring the crowd that there would be a quick change in the casting: Miss Daae would return as the Countess._

_As it should have been to begin with, he angrily thought._

_Andre then promised the spectators that the ballet from the third act would provide entertainment, until the show was ready to resume. The Phantom had not prepared for that. But he was always amenable to change._

_He heard footsteps fall behind him, and he allowed himself to be followed to the backstage rafters. Once there, though, the footsteps disappeared. He looked behind him, expecting to see the stagehand…but Joseph Buquet was nowhere to be seen._

_On the stage below, the ballerinas and stage crew were haphazardly running around, trying to reset their previous positions, props, and backdrops. As he scanned the floor, he looked for the fair-haired ballet dancer that had announced his presence earlier. From his vantage point, he barely saw her blonde crown behind one of the large set pieces._

_He swung through the ropes, from platform to platform, suddenly needing to see more of her._

_When he was right over her, he saw that she wasn't alone._

_That scoundrel, Buquet, held her hostage between the set and the wall. She was crying, but he was ignoring her pleas. He groped her and kissed her neckline aggressively._

_Erik's fists clenched at his sides. On an adjacent platform, a harmless rope was coiled and waiting for use. He grabbed it and fashioned it into his favorite knot. With his familiar weapon in hand, he quietly made his way down one of the many rope and pulley lines. His mostly-black attire camouflaged his descent onto the backstage wing._

_If the company was missing Meg onstage, they certainly weren't showing it. Even her own mother stared fretfully at the dancers engaging in the pastoral scene. Her daughter's absence was either unimportant or unnoticed. Either way, the Phantom of the Opera was not going to allow Buquet to hurt an innocent girl._

_The meddling stagehand had crossed the line too many times, as far as Erik was concerned. If he was so keen on discovering the Opera Ghost, then Erik was more than willing to oblige…for a fee. Buquet's life was forfeit before he accosted Meg, but now the Phantom would find even more satisfaction in killing the wretch._

_Meg's eyes were closed, while Joseph fondled her against the wall. When she opened them, Erik stared directly at her. First, she looked surprised, then fearful, and lastly, beseeching of the masked man that stealthily walked toward her. Erik grabbed the vile man's shoulder and pulled him off of the trembling girl. Buquet attempted to put his hand between the rope and his neck, remembering Madam Giry's last bit of advice…but his disorientated state could not match the Phantom's quick reflexes._

_Erik squeezed the life out of him, not bothering to offer the man any explanation. The deed done, he let the body drop to the floor. Meg had turned away from the violence, so he pulled her from the wall and made her look at him._

_She glanced down at the body and shuddered, but the look she gave the Phantom was one of relief._

" _It's finally over," she whispered._

 _She embraced him, then, much to his surprise. He held her tenderly, worried for her mental state. When she pulled away, he readied himself to warn or threaten her, but her grateful smile halted his thoughts. With one of her dainty hands, she cupped his unblemished cheek and stood_ en pointe _to kiss his lips with her own._

_He relished the intimacy, kissing her back forcefully, as his arms wrapped around her in a protective embrace. Coming up for air, the unlikely couple stepped away from each other, realizing the moment had ended. Meg placed a hand over her heart and nodded to him. She ran off, presumably to rejoin her corps._

_The body of Joseph Buquet was nowhere to be seen, but, when he looked up, he saw that the lifeless form was suspended from the rafters…as he had originally envisioned it. He climbed the rope he had previously climbed down and jumped from platform to platform. Using the knife at his belt, he cut the top of the noose, so that everyone would see the Punjab lasso around his worthless neck._

_The corpse fell straight down, narrowly missing a couple of the dancers onstage._ _It landed with a sickening thud and screams soon followed. Andre, Firmin, and the Vicomte ran down to the stage from their boxes to investigate. Erik remained in the rafters, looking for Christine._

_She fled from the stage, pulling behind her a very confused Raoul. They were heading for the spiral staircase, which would lead them to the rooftop of the Opera Populaire. He used an alternate route and hid his presence from them._

" _Christine!" The Vicomte called out in the bitterly cold air. "There is no Phantom of the Opera…"_

_Christine spun around to face him, desperate to make him understand._

" _Raoul, I've been there, to his world of unending night!" She continued on to vaguely describe his domain…his hideous face._

_Erik despaired. How could she be so cruel? His hopes resurged, when she spoke of his voice and the effect that it had had on her. Raoul maintained that her memories of the Phantom were merely dreams. Christine spoke of his eyes, mostly to herself, remembering how he looked at her in a way that was both pleading and threatening at the same time. She wasn't wrong._

" _Christine, Christine," the Vicomte pleaded._

" _Christine…" the Opera Ghost chimed in, his own plea mostly muffled by the snow. But she had heard it. She searched her surroundings for him, for her Angel of Music, before being stilled by Raoul._

_The Phantom listened as they sang of their love for one another. It was… disgusting… enviable… magnificent. On that snowy rooftop, the Vicomte proposed to Christine and she graciously accepted. She dropped the Phantom's gift to her, a single red rose, onto the white ground and left with her fiancé._

_After they had gone, he retrieved the rose. It was his own sign of devotion and love to his angel. How dare she just cast it aside! In his mind, the echoes of their declarations haunted him. She had denied him in every way possible: his love, his power over her, and his very existence. He crumpled the rose's petals in his gloved hand. Bits of red rained down through his fingers. The petals were the pieces of his broken heart._

_He ran up to the closest statue and called out a warning to the whole of Paris._

" _You will curse the day you did not do all that the Phantom asked of you!"_

_When he turned back to the rooftop, Meg Giry was standing before him. He was in no mood to see her; his energies were better used for revenge at the moment…and he didn't want her to find out what would happen if she got in the way._

_She nodded in understanding and stepped to the side. She was still in her pastoral costume. The stupid girl hadn't thought to grab a cloak, before heading out into freezing temperatures. Erik sighed and pulled off his cape. He wrapped it around her petite frame. As he did so, he noticed that she carried a red rose in her hands._

_He looked to where the rose he had destroyed was resting, but it was not there. Not one fractured petal. The flower Meg held had the same black ribbon he placed on every rose to Christine._

_Shaking his head, he passed her. Before he exited the roof, he called out to her._

" _I'll be taking that back, eventually, so don't get too attached." He meant the cape, of course, but he had forgotten to clarify that fact._

_He didn't turn to look back at her, but he somehow knew that she was smiling._

Erik woke in a daze, peacefully coming back from the dream world. He struggled to remember as many details as he could. It had been another dream of…

He froze, then, feeling the arm wrapped around his mid-section. Behind him, the girl's breathing was still even and deep. He placed his arm over hers, holding her hand to him. He was well-rested, now, and did not need more sleep. But he couldn't bring himself to move her. The affection, although most likely an accident and innocent in intention, was comforting.

He amused himself by imagining her reaction upon waking. There were a great many responses she could give, as the result of being in such a compromising position.

When that amusement subsided, Erik began to compose simple melodies in his head. Something easy…something that anyone could sing…even a _prima ballerina_ whose voice could never match her dance ability.

" _We bring glamour from afar, plus a touch of the bizarre, and it's only for you!"_

Meg would open his show. Not as the hostess, but as an exciting act that would draw a large crowd. She was young, beautiful, and talented. Men would line up to be able to watch her perform. Assuming, of course, that she was cooperative. There would have to be other girls, as well. A whole troupe of dancers. He would need to hire a choreographer…unless Meg felt herself to be qualified…

His musings were halted when he felt the girl's small arm pulling away from his mid-section. He held it in place.

"Please, Erik, let me go."

The Phantom's hold did not budge.

"I awoke to _your_ arm wrapped around _my_ waist, Miss Giry," he elucidated. "Don't blame your actions on me. I granted you space. Apparently, either consciously or subconsciously, you did not want it."

She pulled harder, in response, and he let her go.

Erik sat up and put his mask on. As he lit the lantern, the first noises could be heard of the daytime crew taking up their duties. He moved from the bed and pulled out blank papers and a pen. When he looked up at Meg, she was looking at the table.

He looked back down at the paper and let the melody he had loosely composed take form. First, the lyrics, written as prose; on a second page, the beginnings of sheet music accompanied the words he had written.

"I know you don't want to hear it, but I would like to know something about Christine."

The Phantom looked up at her, surprised at both the subject and the direct tone of her statement. He nodded for her to continue.

"Christine, when you returned her, after _Hannibal_ …" she bit her lip, hesitant about how to phrase her question. "Um, she told me what it was like…with you. She said there was beauty everywhere, and that everything around her was…magical…elegant…mysterious."

Erik's jaw tensed. He knew where this conversation was leading.

"She also said that, when you touched her, her whole body was incredibly…sensitive to your caress. It was the same when she touched you…"

His heartbeat quickened, beginning to be aroused by the memory of holding Christine in his arms.

"But, when I went through the mirror to try to find her, I saw nothing of what she described. It was dark, not light. There were cobwebs everywhere, rats scurried about…"

She worried her lip, again. She had started the conversation, she couldn't abandon her inquiry. But the implication, the accusation…if she was wrong, he would be furious. And if she was right, he would most likely still be furious at her pointing it out.

"How could she and I have two such different points of view? Did you take her on an alternate route? Or…"

The Phantom smirked, pleased that she had finally reached the end of her train of thought.

"Did you…did you do…something…to make her see and feel differently?"

"Yes," he replied.

She hadn't anticipated that he would answer so nonchalantly.

"And…what did you do, then?"

"After she saw me for the first time, I pushed the mirror aside. When it did, a small amount of smoke wafted through the air. It was laced with a hallucinogen."

"A what?"

"A drug, Miss Giry."

Meg's eyes went wide and she gasped.

"You _drugged_ her? How could you? Why-"

"Before you become indignant at something that has _nothing_ to do with _you_ , allow me to explain further. When the Vicomte came to my Opera House, I was forced to improvise. I needed Christine to be…manageable. I measured out the dose very carefully, wishing her to still be as lucid as possible. She was never in any danger."

"She also told me that you must have lain her down on the large swan bed. When she awoke, she felt back to her senses. I guess the drug wore off? Did you do anything to her, while it was still in her system?"

Erik's lip curled in disgust.

"I would never-"

"Just with me, then? Thank goodness I wasn't drugged when I awoke to you molesting me!"

The Phantom's expression cooled. His eyes fixated on the blonde vixen before him.

"I _did_ apologize, if you will recall. And I would not have taken advantage of you further, without your consent."

"You shall _never_ have it," Meg glared back.

Erik took the papers he had been working on and crumpled them into trash. The wads of parchment were thrown into a pile with the other rejected ideas.

"We will not be on this boat for more than a week. Remember what I said: your livelihood will be determined by your decisions. If you can endure the rest of this trip with me, proving yourself to be obedient, then I will make sure you have your _own_ room in New York."

He stood over her to intimidate her, and she looked up at him with wide eyes.

"If you are subordinate in any way, I will not hesitate to make _our_ room your prison cell. Choose your words and actions wisely, Miss Giry, or you may never make it off of this ship!"


	11. Stirred Imagination

**Hello, readers!**

**A gentle reminder: this fanfic is rated M. Some juicy stuff has happened, thus far (mostly in the safe world of dreams), but now we're really getting into the "mature" stuff. Nothing that I would qualify as overly-explicit, but I suppose that's a rather subjective opinion. If you can't handle it, don't approve, or have yet to mature yourself, I would strongly suggest you stop reading.**

**Thanks!  
Jenn**

* * *

The _prima ballerina_ was still incensed. The Phantom of the Opera had drugged her dear friend. And she had believed him unable to hurt his precious Christine. He claimed that he had not taken advantage of his protégé, but Meg couldn't trust him. She shuddered at the memory of feeling his hand between her thighs. Had he done more than that?

She looked up from the copy of _Notre-Dame de Paris._ The Phantom was standing, his back to her, staring at the wall. He held his pen in one hand and twirled it between his fingers. The littered papers were gathered at his feet.

Meg had reached the part of the book where the gypsy girl, Esmeralda, had quenched the thirst of the tortured hunchback, Quasimodo. She read on, to where Esmeralda danced for the handsome Captain Phoebus, who had rescued her earlier from abduction. Meg closed the book and laid it on the table. Erik was still facing away from her…as if determined not to look at her.

She frowned. Her eyes darted towards the closed door. She imagined the dashing Phoebus bursting through and saving her from the monster that had abducted her. The Phantom probably envisioned himself to be just like the hunchback: a poor soul that deserved more than what life had given him. Meg hadn't formed an opinion on Quasimodo, but surely he was more deserving of pity than the dark man that stood in the same room with her.

The tension in the cramped space was making her claustrophobic. She needed privacy.

"I would like to bathe, please."

Erik barely turned his head toward her.

"You bathed not four days ago."

"And now I would like to bathe, again, _monsieur_. Forgive me if my standards of cleanliness are higher than you'd like them to be."

The Phantom scoffed and turned to face her.

"Fine. You have five minutes, _mademoiselle_."

He went to leave the room, grabbing the lasso from the nail on the wall, and pulling his pocket watch from underneath his cloak.

"I will require ten."

He stopped in his tracks and looked at her, incredulous.

"And yet, you'll only have five."

"Please, Erik, give me more time. I was hardly able to finish last time. Please?"

The Phantom sighed, unsure if he was reconsidering because of her saying his name or if he was beginning to identify with the young girl. He steeled himself and looked back at the door.

"I'll give you seven minutes. Be quick."

Meg's jaw dropped, unable to believe that she had gained any ground. She was sure that Erik would simply deny her any luxury, asserting the control that he had over her. He continued out the door, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

All she had really wanted was the cabin to herself. Now that she was alone, she wasn't sure what she wanted to do.

She decided to look for a weapon. She didn't want to fatally wound him, but if she could handicap him, maybe she could get away. Or cause enough of a clamor to be rescued. She was hopeful that, if she could break away from his control while still on the ship, she would be allowed to return to France and to her mother.

She looked through the box under their table, surprised by how many useful items were there…but nothing sharp. She scanned the room and her eyes landed on the Phantom's bag. The one he had brought with him from the bowels of the Opera Populaire.

Meg crossed the small space and knelt down to where the bag laid, seemingly forgotten. The mess of crumpled papers surrounded the satchel, and Meg went to brush them aside. She absently picked one up and opened it fully. It looked like a completed sheet of music. Odd, that he had chosen to throw away something that appeared to be done. She wasn't able to read the music, but she wondered what it would sound like, once played. Would it be mournful? Angry? Exciting and cheerful?

She opened another paper and was surprised to find more sheet music. After studying both pages, she was fairly certain that they were part of the same song.

She went for another, determined to solve a puzzle that she could not possibly decipher. On this next sheet, though, were words…lyrics? Her name appeared at various spots on the page, lined up next to phrases. "Ensemble" was written alongside certain lyrics, as well. She wished she could have read through them, but they were in a different language. English, most likely.

He was going to include her in _Phantasma_? She had just assumed he would lock her away somewhere. Her heart lifted, imagining being able to perform again. It was her passion. She would dance and, surprisingly, she would get the chance to sing.

If she went back to Paris, what would be left for her? The Opera Populaire was most likely destroyed. Would she and her mother have to leave their home? Could they start a ballet company? Her mother had expressed the idea in passing before. Her mother had also suggested that, if she were not at the Opera Populaire, she would teach privately. In that case, could Meg succeed on her own?

Erik wanted her to be a part of his show. He could make her a star.

She felt torn, all of a sudden. Her freedom still called to her, but she was touched by Erik's including her in his new dream. She shook her head, determined not to be deterred from her plan by one nice gesture. Her attention refocused, and she opened the satchel.

Inside were curious items: a bottle of a clear liquid, unlabeled; a lock of brunette hair that could only belong to one person; a burlap sack with holes cut into it; a few handkerchiefs; the famous wax seal with his signature skull and a couple sticks of red wax; and, finally, a small drawstring purse. She opened the purse to see what, if anything, was inside.

The contents were not immediately visible, but when she brought it close to her eye, she saw a fine-grain powder. She couldn't make out its color. A loud noise was heard from above, and she dropped the opened purse in alarm. The bag retained the majority of its contents, but the action caused a small amount of the powder to rise up into the air.

Meg inhaled and sneezed, when the foreign substance reached her nostrils. She fanned the air surrounding her furiously. Around her, everything seemed to be changing. The walls darkened to black, while the makeshift bed became clothed in red with a four-post frame. The lantern was now a beautifully exotic lamp atop a mahogany table. Her eyes widened at her new surroundings.

Seven minutes passed and the Phantom opened the door to chaos. The contents of his bag and the supply box had clearly been ruffled through. A few of the crumpled sheets were unfolded, and Meg sat on the floor beside them. She was reading lyrics in a language that she didn't know. He grabbed her by the arm and stood her to face him.

"Well, I hope you enjoyed your _bath_ , Meg."

Her eyes were dazed, and she was leaning into him. He eyed the opened satchel of powder on the floor and smirked at her.

"So, it's despicable for me to drug your friend, but it's perfectly acceptable for you to root through my things and sample the very same drug you denounced me for using?"

She stared into his deep blue eyes, seeing how very attractive the unmarred side of his face was. She felt warm, tingly… She put her cheek against his chest and nuzzled into him. He chuckled at her drug-addled response.

"What does it say, Erik?"

Her voice was unnaturally smooth and uncharacteristically seductive. The Phantom hesitated, feeling his attraction for the ballerina grow. She held the page of lyrics up to him, still against his chest.

He took the paper and started to read the English lyrics, but she still didn't understand.

"No," she started. "Please, sing it."

He did. And when he had finished, she asked him to tell her what it was about. He told her it was a welcoming song to a large audience; it introduced the rest of the show.

"You want me to sing this? You want me to sing?" Her voice was hopeful, and he heard it.

"Yes, I would like for you to sing and dance in _Phantasma_. If you want to."

"I want to," she whispered back.

She grabbed the paper from his hand and let it fall to the floor. Her palm went to his heart, near her head, and she closed her eyes to listen to the steady heartbeat. His arms enveloped her, gently holding her to him.

Slowly, painstakingly, she pulled her head away from the warmth of his body and looked up into his hypnotic eyes. He looked back down at her with amusement…and desire. She raised herself up to kiss him, but he turned away from her lips. He exhaled when he felt her lips brush against his bare cheek.

Meg lowered herself back down with a look of disappointment on her face. He brought his hand up to her face and leaned his head down to kiss along her neck. She moaned at the sensation and used both of her hands to bring his head closer to the spot he was claiming.

"Mmmm…" the young girl moaned. "Why does it feel so good?"

Erik unlatched his mouth from her dainty neck to answer.

"Because the powder heightens your sensitivity to touch, in addition to the hallucination you're experiencing."

"The what?"

"Tell me," he smiled down at her. "What do you see around us?"

She turned in his arms to survey the room. He still held her around her midsection, and she rested her arms on top of his.

"I see…the walls are dark, black. The bed is luxurious, with a deep red cover. There are candles everywhere. And rose petals. Red rose petals on the ground…"

"You see what you want to see."

She leaned back into him and he moved one of his stationary hands to caress up her side. He tilted her head to the side, pleased that her eyes were closed in complete abandon. He stroked her cheek, lulling her further into safety with him.

"We don't have to be enemies, my dear," he whispered into her ear. He kissed the pressure point there and continued. "I stole you away from your home to punish your mother, not you. She is penalized through your absence, but you have the opportunity to soar beyond what her protective nature would have allowed."

Her hand ascended to his bare cheek, just cupping the rough skin there. He nuzzled her neck in response and she sighed contentedly.

"I will make you a _star_ , Meg. You will dance for me, sing for me, and I will reward you with the fame you have always desired."

Her eyes opened, at that. The smile that grew upon her lovely face was sincere. She turned to him and wrapped both of her arms around his neck. His hands settled on her hips.

"Will I ever see my mother in this lifetime?"

The Phantom paused at the innocent question. After _Phantasma_ was up and running…after he was stable…after his heart had mended into some semblance of a working organ…after he had forgotten his first love…

His eyes narrowed, imagining his forgetting his angel.

"No," he firmly stated.

Meg's eyes began to water, as she stared up into Erik's cooled expression. He melted at her distress and kissed her forehead.

"But you will have me to take care of you," he reassured.

She went to kiss his lips, again, but he dodged her advance.

"Not all of you," she frowned.

"As much as I have left," he clarified. He walked her to the bed and lay her down. "How does it feel?"

"Hmmm? Oh, the bed?"

He nodded.

"It feels…quite the same, actually," she giggled at the confession. "I suppose your drug cannot change the texture, just the appearance."

He smiled darkly at her, as he hovered over her body.

"I have a remedy," he began. "Close your eyes, my dear, and allow the fantasy to take over."

She obediently did so, and he bent down to kiss her throat. His mouth wandered down to her clavicle, before one hand undid the strings of the white blouse she still wore. He continued his assault on the tops of her breasts, and his hands moved up her body. As they made their way from her waist to her shoulders, they caught the outer garment and pulled it over her head. She left her arms above her head, resting on the pillow.

Underneath the blouse was a simple ecru corset. With her prone position, her bountiful chest was trying its hardest to escape its confines. His hand circled her waist, searching for the ties. Once found, he continued to adore her as the offending vestment was loosened. He pulled it from her torso and discarded it on the floor, next to her top.

She lay before him, eyes closed, her top half bared. He smirked in triumph. He gently traced his fingertips over her silky skin, following the curve of her breast. He knelt next to her and dipped his head to suckle the nipples that were waiting for his attention.

As he caught one in his watering mouth, her moaning increased. She arched into him, and he supported her back with one of his strong arms. He trailed his tongue to her other peak and lavished it with equal fervor.

Her moaning subsided and her breathing became steady. He pulled away and frowned at the sleeping beauty. Before leaving her to her dreams, he covered her nakedness with the cape around his shoulders.

Erik watched her for a while. He found himself wanting more. More of her. He had given her little credit, he supposed. She was not lacking in physical beauty; she was merely not the type he had grown fond of. If not for Christine's voice, however… Meg was certainly more striking. She was both intelligent and strong. Christine had been strong, too, in the depths of her despair.

But, most importantly, Meg was willing. She wanted to share her gift with the world. He had done everything in his power to convince Christine to realize her talent, but the little _prima donna_ was always too humble…too reluctant to stand up for herself. Even if Christine was with him, right now, he doubted she would be as excited about the prospect of performing for him in _Phantasma._

Meg would shine. He would see to it.

_"Mister Y has all you need, satisfaction guaranteed, and it's only for you!"_

He picked up the discarded song and lyrics and smoothed them out. He was proud of the piece he had written. It was jubilant, catchy, and just eccentric enough to fit in with the theme of his show. After laying them on the table, his eyes flitted to the book she was reading. _Notre-Dame de Paris_ was a favorite of his, although it wasn't an easy read. He wondered what she thought of it…if she liked it.

The Phantom set his eyes upon her, again. She could never be his angel…but maybe she could be his Esmeralda.


	12. Abandoned Defenses

**Hello, all!**

**I am borrowing from** _**Chitty Chitty Bang Bang,** _ **instead of using (in my opinion) the WORST song in** _**LND** _ **… "Bathing Beauty". Honestly, what was ALW thinking? Aside from lyrics, there will be no other crossover. That would be too weird.**

**Also, I switch back and forth between French and English a bit. Sorry for the confusion, I don't know a better way to handle it. Just remember: their native tongue is French. So, when the Phantom is speaking in French to her, she understands it. When they attempt to speak English (with his words in quotations), I will try to clarify as much as possible.**

**Jenn**

* * *

_Phantasma_ was blooming from a simple idea into an intricate concept. Erik had written more music, while Meg slept off the hallucinogen. There were no lyrics, yet, but they would come in time. They would have to be in English, of course, to appeal to the vast majority of paying customers.

Every few minutes, his eyes would lift to Meg's covered form, willing her to awaken. He wasn't sure what to expect. Depending on how much of the drug she had inhaled, it was possible that she wouldn't remember any of their…encounter.

He was humming the strains of a dark ballad. He called it "The Beauty Underneath". It was too heavy for Meg, but he couldn't tell, without lyrics, who exactly would be featured.

Her eyelids softly fluttered awake, and Erik dropped his pen to watch her reaction. She moved sluggishly, slowly acknowledging her surroundings. When she registered her nakedness, her bare arm clutched his cape to her chest in alarm. She sat up rigidly and turned her shocked countenance to the Phantom.

"Oh, I…oh, my!" Her face flushed mercilessly, as she remembered the events prior to her nap.

Erik smirked at her, pleased that she did, in fact, recall what had transpired.

"Good afternoon, Meg. At least, I assume it must be afternoon."

"I…did I…did we…"

He shook his head at her and she closed her eyes in relief.

"Like I said earlier," he reminded her. "Never without your consent."

She nodded and looked about for her missing garments. When she saw them on the floor at his feet, she frowned.

"Erik, would you mind?"

He bent over, retrieved the blouse, and handed to her outstretched hand.

"My corset, too, please."

The Phantom smiled and made no move to pick it up.

"I will not help you put it back on," he admitted. "And, as you cannot possibly fasten it yourself, you may as well leave it on the ground."

"I will _not_ be waltzing about without my undergarments, thank you very much," she expressed indignantly.

"Apparently, you shall. Now, put the shirt on and assist me in writing appropriate songs for you."

The confusion on her face was momentary, until she remembered her part in his plan. The corset was a lost cause. His argument was valid, if ungentlemanly, and she knew he would not reconsider. She held his cape under her arms and used her two restricted limbs to pull the white blouse over her head. Once on, she let the cape fall down and then used it to cover herself, eager to have more material over her chest.

"Now that you have regained a small measure of modesty, what would you like to sing about?"

"I don't know. What should a dancer sing about?"

"That would be what I am trying to ascertain, little ballerina." His words were teasing. She eyed him warily, expecting that his jovial mood could change at any second.

"Does it have to be in English, like the other one?"

"Of course," he affirmed. "We will be in America."

"But how will I sing in a language I don't understand?"

Erik laughed at her naivety. "I scarcely believe Christine understood any of the Italian arias that she sang for me." His laughter stopped at the reminder of his muse. Meg saw his jaw clench, as he looked away from her.

She thought about the different ballets and shows she had performed. _Don Juan Triumphant_ eventually crossed her mind; she still wore the costume from a scene that had never seen an audience. A ballerina wearing pants was not completely unheard of, in an opera. At times, the corps was required to don male costumes to increase the amount of "men" onstage. After Christine and Piangi had finished "The Point of No Return," she and the other dancers were tasked with storming the stage to arrest the duped maiden. Piangi as "Don Juan" would then hide the frightened girl in his chambers, where they would feign her seduction.

The memory of the chaos that ensued from Christine's final disappearance brought Meg back to her senses.

"A music box…"

Erik's eyes snapped back to her.

"What are you talking about?"

"She said there was a music box. It woke her up," she dreamily answered. "It had a monkey on it, didn't it?"

"Yes," he whispered. "I had to leave it behind. I made it."

"You did? You actually made it?"

"I did."

"My mother gave me a music box that her grandmother had given her," she shared. "She knew I adored it. I begged her to play it all the time. And then I would dance. It was a wooden pedestal with a porcelain ballerina that spun on top. I pretended that I was the ballerina."

He stayed perfectly still and patiently waited for her to continue her story. Her eyes welled with tears as she reminisced.

"When she presented it to me, I was so excited! I placed it on my nightstand and twirled alongside her. Once, I put one of my mother's tutus on, so that I would look like her, too. But I was too close, and the fabric caught her outstretched hands. It fell to the floor and shattered. I cried for days, at the loss…"

The tears liberated themselves from her pretty eyes, falling gracefully down her smooth cheeks.

"She wasn't mad. My mother…she wasn't angry with me. I think she understood how bad I felt. There was no need to punish me further."

Erik took a deep breath and took up the conversation.

"Yes, this will work perfectly. You will be a ballerina on a turning music box."

He grabbed more paper from under the table and set it down.

"Do you remember how the tune went, Meg?"

She smiled and wiped the tears away. Her eyes moved to the side of the room, seeing past the wooden wall to a memory hidden within the recesses of her mind. When she had it, she looked back at the Phantom and hummed the basic melody.

He returned the smile and put the notes she sang onto corresponding lines. It was an interesting challenge, to create a solo number that would require both her dancing and her singing to be mechanical, in style. Meg placed the cape around her upper body and crossed the room to find sustenance. She settled for an apple and watched over his shoulder as his hand raced back and forth over the parchment.

Although he made substantial progress, he was unable to finish until he had matching lyrics. He abandoned the music and grabbed a fresh sheet of paper.

"Are you finished, already?"

He did not turn to face her, as he answered. "No, but I will finish the musical portion after the lyrics are completed."

She stretched her legs and back, and then finished the apple. It was hard to believe that a week and a half ago, she was practicing her craft daily. With one hand, she clasped the cloak, while the other rested gracefully at her side. She went up on _relevé_ and let her stiff calves adjust to the strain. After they could take no more, she extended each leg out to allow her feet to point. It was difficult, in the cumbersome boots, but it made her feel better to do so.

As Meg lightly danced behind him, Erik continued to write. The lyrics came rather naturally, as he wanted the song to be rather simple. After the song was completed, he turned to her. Meg clutched the cape around her shoulders a little more tightly.

"Would you like to hear it?" he asked.

"Yes, very much."

" _Que voyez-vous, vous qui me regarde? Voyez une fille sur une boîte à musique qui est enroulé par une clé."_

He translated the entirety of the song for her, lightly singing the composition that he had penned only minutes ago. When he had finished, she clapped delightedly.

"I love it! It is so beautiful! Must I learn it in English? I cannot imagine it would sound better than that."

"Perhaps not," he acquiesced. "But then, we would lose most of your audience. Repeat after me: 'What do you see?'"

Her brow furrowed at the strange sounding words, but she played along.

"Whoo-at doe you say?"

"No, no," the Phantom chided. "Try again. 'What do you see?'"

"What doooh yooou see?"

"Better." He nodded his approval in encouragement. Meg couldn't restrain the feeling of accomplishment that surged through her at his response.

"And now this: 'You people gazing at me.'"

"Yooou peepule gahzeeng an me."

"Again, Meg. Listen to my voice."

He stood and held her upper arms. She stared into his eyes, frightened by the proximity.

"Focus on my lips, please, and try again. 'What do you see.'"

She obeyed and concentrated on his enunciation.

"What do you see."

"Good. Now, 'You people gazing at me.'"

"You people gazing at me."

"In one line: 'What do you see, you people gazing at me.'"

"What do you see, you people gazing at me."

"Let's keep going. 'You see a girl on a music box.'"

"You see a girl on a music box."

"You're doing very well; now try the next part…."

They continued the call and response tactic; Meg was elated to find out that the song was mercifully brief. When they had spoken all of the English lyrics, Erik smiled proudly at her. She relaxed in his chaste hold and smiled back.

"So…I just said all the words that you sang to me? It's the same story as what you sang?"

"Yes, more or less. It's difficult to translate from one language to another without losing a little of the original meaning, but the story is the same. You'll play a ballerina on a turning music box who desires to fall in love. You realize, however, that you are limited to your stationary position, bound to the very apparatus that enables you to sing of your longing."

Meg looked wistful, seeing the ironic symbolism as a metaphor for her current state. A dancer that wished for freedom, but was imprisoned by the instrument of her success. That sounded familiar.

He let her go and returned to his seat, finalizing the sheet music with the ending he envisioned. She returned to the bed and picked the copy of _Notre-Dame de Paris_ back up.

Erik looked up when he heard Meg shifting on the bed. Her face was flushed and she held her free hand up to her lips. He knew what part she was most likely reading…the tryst between Phoebus and Esmeralda. Although the lovers in the book had been violently separated, the descriptive implications were obviously flustering the sexually inexperienced girl.

Now that two of her songs were completed, he placed the papers in a stack and flexed his cramping hands. He stood and prepared their dinner, wishing to engage her in conversation.

"Where are you, in the novel?"

Meg looked up and had an expression of guilt upon her face.

"Um…I…" she cleared her throat to start over. "Phoebus has just been stabbed."

The Phantom smiled, happy to have been right about her body signals.

"I don't quite remember that part. It's been a while since I've read it. Why don't you describe the scene for me?"

Meg closed the book and placed it atop the stack of papers. She felt her cheeks enflame, and she dreaded the idea of explaining what she had just read.

"I'd rather not, thank you. Can I assist you in making dinner?"

Erik chuckled to himself at her refusal.

After they finished their meal and the cleanup, Meg walked back toward the bed. At some point in the evening, the cape had been discarded, and now she stretched her back. Erik came right up behind her, which made her jump in surprise. His hands rested upon her waist and she froze in response.

"Before bed, I would like you to show me how you plan to emulate a porcelain ballerina."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I wondered if you would be useful as a choreographer for _Phantasma_ , or if I would have to hire someone."

She sighed and moved to seat herself on the bed. He let go of her and left his arms at his sides. They stared at each other, until Meg broke the silence.

"I think I could do it," she stated. "I mean, I love dancing, and mother would occasionally have me help her choreograph our dance numbers." She took a deep breath and finished her thought. "I could create a routine for the music box song, but I need a little more time, if you don't mind."

"I don't," he replied. His eyes still raked over her, down to the floor where her corset still lay. "Do you remember what I said earlier? About us not having to be enemies?"

Meg flinched at the memory. She remembered what had occurred between them…how wanton she had acted. When they had arrived on the ship, Erik had used touch to control her. Now he was touching her more frequently; it was as if he was still trying to control her, but through different tactics. Or was it something more?

Did she want it to be something more?

"Yes," she answered to his question.

"You find yourself tangled up in my chaos, and I am sorry for that. You were, indeed, a good friend to Christine. I had not considered the repercussions of abducting you…I thought only of my ire towards your mother."

Her eyes misted. It had only been a little over a week since she had seen her mother. But already it felt like ages ago.

"I can give you comfort," he promised. "We can comfort each other."

He moved the cape from the bed onto the nail that held the lasso. Returning to her side, he cautiously sat beside her and stared seductively into her innocent eyes.

"Let me show you."

It was a request…and a demand. The blonde was frozen, while the noise level outside signified the end of a workday. The Phantom eased her onto her side, facing him, and he lay down in turn. Their eyes remained locked, as his hand traced ghostly lines over her cheek and neck.

Time passed as he languorously caressed her, slowly pulling her into his larger frame. She accepted the affection, desiring to feel safe, despite the fact that her mind still recognized him as her kidnapper. He kissed the top of her head in a placating fashion and simply held her to him.

Both bodies tensed when they heard noises coming from outside their cabin. A conversation was becoming more audible, as the participants made their way toward the hidden compartment.

"…not what you said before," said a male voice. "Do you not care for me, Josette?"

"I love you, Henri!" Josette exclaimed.

"Then why will you not _prove_ it to me, my love?"

"I…I cannot just throw away my virtue," she asserted. "Can you not wait the few days until we are off this ship? We can be wed, and then I will be yours forever and ever!"

Meg scoffed into the Phantom's chest, at the idea of the philandering sailor being tied down to either of the women he had brought to this place. His head above hers, Erik smirked in a similar thought.

"Er…but, I will not allow my fragile heart to enter into such an arrangement until I know your love is as deep as mine!"

"Henri-"

Josette's argument was silenced and the sounds of kissing took its place. The Phantom pulled away from Meg and moved to kiss her neck. She shook her head in alarm, but he smiled knowingly and shushed her. As the lovers outside embraced, the stowaways experimented with their own sober intimacy.

Erik kissed and nipped at her sensitive neck, while his hand gently brushed her clothed breasts. The action made Meg flinch, but he secured her to him with an arm wrapped around her waist. To make them both more comfortable, he rolled her slightly over him, so that she wouldn't feel completely trapped.

"No…" the woman outside complained. "No, Henri. Stop. Stop!"

The Phantom halted his ministrations and watched Meg with hooded eyes. Her own hazel orbs showed her nervousness, coupled with attraction.

"Josette," Henri soothingly chided. "If you give yourself to me, I will give you the world in return. I love you so very much, _Cherie_."

Erik shook his head at Meg and smirked. She smiled back and rolled her eyes at the events that were currently taking place mere feet from their location. Poor Josette was doomed, and they both knew it.

"Oh, Henri!"

The couple continued their amorous activities, as Josette gave into the smooth-talking sailor. Erik resumed his seduction of Meg, peppering her neck and clavicle with feathery kisses. His hands wandered under her blouse to return his affection to her bountiful breasts.

Every so often, her body would twitch in uncertainty, but he pushed through her misgivings with light shushes and bold advances. Outside, the lovers were becoming intimately acquainted; Henri the sailor's gentle prodding was rewarded with the ultimate prize.

"Please," Josette interrupted. "Will it hurt? I've heard other girls say that it hurt the first time they made love."

Meg pulled away and looked at the Phantom, believing the question to be relevant to her situation.

"I will be gentle, my sweet," the womanizing sailor promised. The kissing resumed and the sounds of vestments being discarded could be heard through the wooden wall.

Erik softly ran his fingers over Meg's forehead into her flaxen hair.

"It may," he whispered.

She shook her head in response. Erik smiled charmingly at her.

"It is just us, now, Meg. Let me be your shelter. Let me protect you."

The words sounded borrowed, unnatural. But she could not deny that they were comforting. Her whole world had changed, very suddenly. And the only thing that binded her old life to what she would become was him. She was desperate for the intimacy.

Outside, the passionate couple had just joined. Josette's cries of pain were muffled, but they soon ceased and became ardent moans of desire. The Phantom simply watched the beautiful girl in his arms. He waited patiently for a solid answer.

There were girls in the ballet corps with Meg that gave themselves for less. Josette was certainly sacrificing her virginity for a very risky love. What Meg and Erik had was…well, not love, but at least a bond. Ultimately, he needed her acceptance. She needed his compassion. _We don't have to be enemies…_

Meg steeled herself and nodded her consent.


	13. New Sensations

**My version of the Phantom is more attuned with the 2004 movie (Gerard Butler). The deformity will be similar, but he's still wearing his** _**Don Juan Triumphant** _ **costume. I apologize to those of you who are hardcore Phans that despised the movie's toning-down of the Phantom's macabre appearance.**

**Warning: Sexual content...quite a lot of it. Mature readers only, please.**

* * *

Erik rolled Meg back onto her side, off of his body. He sat up to hover over her and slowly pulled the loose blouse over her head. Her eyes locked onto his, nervous about every action that would follow. He stared back with a smoldering gaze.

Her breasts were laid bare once more, but he did not chance breaking eye contact with the young girl to see them in the lantern's light. One hand cupped her cheek, with the thumb gently caressing her trembling bottom lip; the other hand slid down her torso to the black sash at her waist. The Phantom deftly undid the fastening, throwing yet another piece of her costume onto the floor, and set his sights on stripping the blonde down completely.

Outside, the couple's love-making had sped up to a frenzied pace. Erik's jaw clenched, impatient to have the release he craved.

He bent over her naked stomach and placed a delicate kiss on her smooth skin. She smiled nervously at the unexpected gesture. He smiled back, before removing her boots; but he frowned at the bruises and scrapes on her dancer's feet. It was unnecessary for her to be _en pointe_ in America. When she began to choreograph for _Phantasma_ , he would purposefully hire chorus girls that had limited ballet training.

She sat up, when she saw him frown, suddenly self-conscious about her body. What had he found fault with? He looked back at her and smiled reassuringly; gently, he pushed her back down. Erik pulled at her leggings, the final garment left on her lithe body. She clenched her legs in fear, so he let them be and returned to her side.

He lay down upon her and resumed his attentions to her neck and breast, simultaneously gripping her thigh and pulling it away from its pair. Once they were separated, his fingertips skimmed her clad legs until reaching their apex. Feeling the touch on her most private of parts, Meg's hand flew down to still his.

"Erik?"

He heard the uncertainty in her voice. Although he desperately wanted to sigh in frustration, he remained calm and met her gaze with his own.

"Yes?"

The young woman bit her lip in a nervous motion that did absolutely nothing to abate his desire.

"What will you think of me? I mean, what will happen after…after we do this?" She continued to whisper, mindful of the couple that was still on the other side of the wall.

He smiled cockily at her naivety. He had never been with a virgin before. Not that he minded; he just wasn't used to having to seduce whilst overcoming objections.

"After we are both sated, we shall rest," he whispered back. "As far as what I will think of you…I will not think less of you, if that's what you are worried about."

She frowned, unsure if his answer was satisfactory in easing her trepidation. Before she could question him further, he continued.

"And I will keep my promise to you, my dear," he smiled charmingly. "I _will_ make you a star. My beautiful Adelina."

"Please," she interrupted. "When it's just the two of us, please don't call me that."

Erik's face fell to a very serious expression. He nodded solemnly.

"Very well, my beautiful _Meg._ " He kissed the tip of her nose in apology.

Her eyes closed in a state of bliss, and her hand let go of his. Having been given permission to explore, his fingers dipped and played against her guarded entrance. She kept her eyes shut, so he gave into his urge to latch his mouth onto one of her breasts.

The double stimulation was too much for Meg to handle, and she let out a loud moan. Her hand flew to her mouth to silence future cries, but not before the Phantom halted his ministrations to glare at her.

"Did you hear something?" Josette's passion-filled voice called out to her lover.

"Mmmm…" The young sailor was clearly reluctant to allow any interference to their tryst.

Meg's heart raced in panic, and Erik left her side to retrieve the Punjab lasso. He stood against the door, the noose gripped in his hands.

"Henri," the debauched maiden pleaded. "Henri! Stop! I said that I heard something! Are you sure we're alone?"

"Shhh… _cherie,_ " he insisted. "Let me finish-"

"Not until you check!"

"There is no one down here. It may have been a rat you heard-"

"A _rat_? That's it! I cannot take this any longer. Escort me back to my room, please, Henri."

"Josette…don't do this. Don't leave me unfulfilled!" Henri pled in earnest. "If you object to touching the floor, then let me lift you up!" His smarmy voice gave the poor girl no indication of what he was about to do.

The two resumed their love-making against the same wall he had taken Giselle. Meg used her arms to shield her chest and stared at the wall in disbelief. Erik breathed a sigh of relief and placed the noose back on its nail. He crossed back to Meg and pulled her hands away from her breasts.

"Try to be a bit quieter, Meg, dear," his voice was serious, but he playfully cocked an eyebrow at her.

She flushed with embarrassment. Not that she had moaned aloud, but that her action had almost cost two innocent people their lives. Nothing about the Phantom had changed. He was still the same man. The same calculating, relentless, and controlling man who wouldn't hesitate to eradicate anything or anyone that stood between him and his goals. She needed to remember that.

Meg nodded. Her mind clouded as she assessed the situation, but snapped back to attention when she registered that the Phantom had returned to her leggings. To the single article of clothing that remained on her body. She tensed, again, but his eyes narrowed at her resistance. It was a gentle warning not to stave off his advances.

As he peeled them from her pale legs, she cringed at what could possibly happen next. She had never been completely bare, in her developed body, in front of anyone but herself. Not her mother, not any of the dancers, and most _definitely_ never a man had seen all of her. But once he had finished stripping her, he smiled at the nubile flesh he had uncovered. She nervously smiled back.

It was at that moment, as well, that she noticed he was still fully dressed. She was completely bare and he was completely covered! That fact made her feel oddly helpless. A shiver ran through her body at the thought.

Meanwhile, Erik stood above her, allowing his eyes to rake over her lithe body.

The waiting was agonizing. Her eyes pleaded with him to do something, anything.

She suddenly wondered if his deformity limited to half of his face. Was that why he remained clothed? Was he even able to take her fully?

Her questions were quickly answered, as she watched one hand go to the other's wrist. He removed a silver cufflink from the cuff of his white dress shirt, and then the other. When he placed them on the bedside table, she saw that they were in the shape of small skulls. He removed the black jacket and the black vest from his _Don Juan_ costume.

Unlike Meg's garments that lay in a heap on the floor, he gently placed each piece of his clothing onto the crate he used as his chair. The white dress shirt followed the vest and jacket, leaving his chest bare.

Her eyes studied the exposed flesh. There were no scars, burn marks, or anything atypical. Nothing visible, anyway. Instead, she was surprised to see a rather toned frame and broad shoulders. His muscles constricted underneath the skin, reacting to every breath, every movement.

He kicked off his boots as his hands went to the buttons on his trousers. His eyes never left hers, wishing to witness every virginal reaction. She blushed prettily, and he grinned lecherously back at her. As he slowly removed his trousers, she averted her gaze, afraid to actually see all of him.

With only his mask on, the Phantom lay down beside her and reclaimed her undivided attention. His hand caressed a dainty ankle, then slowly moved toward her creamy thigh. Goosebumps appeared on her flesh at the almost ticklish sensation. When he reached her crevice, she gasped in surprise.

Before, when he had touched her through her leggings, she had felt a tingling sensation work its way to her very core. Without the barrier, his touch was pure heat and domination. She squirmed underneath him, as her body began to involuntarily react to his wicked movements.

He played with a sensitive spot on the outside of her body, until she began to buck into his hand. Feeling the beginning of her arousal on his fingertips, he halted his attentions. She bit back a moan of protest and opened her eyes to see why he had stopped. She was surprised to find him watching her with a very concentrated stare. His eyes flitted down to between her legs.

Bringing his masked face down to her thighs, he inhaled her light scent. Meg was different. She was different in every way. Pure, fresh, virginal…so fragile and delicate, yet still writhing atop their bed, anxious for more. He had most definitely never been with one like her.

She blushed at the unexpected act. He lay over her and gently stroked the hair away from her forehead.

Meg felt his turgid length folded between her thighs and breathed a sigh of relief that he was not yet entering her.

"Just one more minute, my dear," he whispered into her ear.

The words confused her. Was he making a request? Was it a warning?

Her questions were answered when Henri and Josette finished their love-making outside. The lovers took in great mouthfuls of air, as if they had been completely deprived of breath.

"Henri," Josette began, her voice winded. "I love you, so very much!"

"Yes, love, of course, of course," he answered. "Shall I escort you back?"

No more words were said, but their retreating footsteps disappeared into soundlessness. Meg and Erik were once again alone.

The Phantom moved on top of her; he opened her legs wider and began to insert himself. Meg's eyes widened.

"No, wait-"

This time, he did not hold back a frustrated sigh. He glowered down at her, pleased when she shuddered at his icy glare.

"You are trying my patience, _Meg_."

"I just want…" she hesitated. "I…please, can I see your…your face?"

His eyes narrowed.

"No," he snarled. "And do not press the issue. Now, succumb to me."

She didn't dare to speak up again, so she nodded her acquiescence.

He moved, again, toward her entrance. She was still slick with arousal, and he grunted at the pleasurable feeling. He slowly penetrated her, taking his time and allowing her to adjust to the new sensation of being filled.

Her maidenhood had mercifully already been broken from the strenuous nature of her craft. Erik was relieved that he would not have to break through a barrier to sheath himself. But as he pushed further in, her eyes began to water in discomfort. He lightly brushed her cheek, trying to calm her, as he stilled on top of her.

"Shhhh…" he consoled her. Meg suddenly realized that she was whimpering.

It was not exactly painful. The feeling was similar to stretching sore muscles, except for the very obvious addition of a foreign body part.

After she had quieted, he began to move inside her. When she moaned in appreciation, he smiled at her. Now that they were quite alone in their secluded area of the ship, he relished every blissful sound that passed through her lips.

Her walls began to tense around his manhood; to accommodate her release, he quickened his pace, increasing the friction. His focus on her pleasure, coupled with her inexperience, quickly brought Meg to a peak. He covered her mouth with his hand, muffling her cries of ecstasy.

Once she had finished, he pulled out of her and placed his lips on her neck. She panted against him, suddenly aware of why the couple outside their cabin had been so breathless. A thin sheen of sweat had materialized on her skin, not from strain, but from arousal. Erik nipped and licked at her neck, attempting to assuage his eagerness to be inside her again.

Her breathing soon evened out, and he could hold back no longer.

He reentered her, and she gasped in response. The pace set was more frenzied than before. It had been too long. There was no way he would be able to hold out to give her another moment of bliss. He growled low in his throat. She was grinding her hips into his, biting that deliciously sensual bottom lip. Her moans corresponded with every thrust he made, growing louder in wanton desire.

"Ahhhhh…Christine…"

Meg's half-lidded eyes flew open at the name. His head was still in the crevice of her neck, and before she could comment on what he had spoken, he came inside her.

Tears she hadn't registered leaving her eyes were now streaking down her cheeks. She had not equated their sacred act with anything related to love. But something inside her had hoped…

He rolled off of her and stood to dress himself. Meg stared at the ceiling, unsure of what to do, now that the glow was fading. Erik left the vest and the jacket on the chair. The cufflinks, too, remained on the small table.

When he turned toward her, he smirked at her nakedness. She truly was beautiful. Such a prize. He started to bend down to pick up her clothing, but instead grabbed his cloak from the wall.

Meg registered the covering being thrown over her. She still did not look at him, turning onto her side toward the wall in preparation for sleep.

The Phantom settled in next to her, completing his nightly routine of extinguishing the light and removing his mask. Something about resuming their normally intimate sleeping position seemed very wrong, now. Instead, he lay on his back, maintaining a façade of neutrality toward the girl. His body felt deliciously sated, and he planned to take her again. He could only hope that she would now be easier to seduce. Sleep overtook him quickly, and he drifted away without paying attention to the young woman who silently cried beside him.

While he slept, he dreamt.

She might have dreamt, as well…if she had been able to sleep.


	14. Awakened Desires

**In writing this chapter, I realized something: how in the heck did Meg et al cross the lake to reach Erik's lair? Seriously, how? Raoul kind of swam there, after falling into a trap. But Meg was completely dry. COMPLETELY DRY. Was there a stash of dinghies nearby? Did she have a paddleboard?**

**Needless to say, I'm just not going to go there. Not yet, anyway. This is Erik's final dream, so she'll just be magically appearing...as per usual.**

**Warning: Ahoy! Thar be more sex ahead, mateys! Rated Arrrr!**

* * *

_He was delighted to finally see Christine face to face. The circumstances were not ideal, but, after the discussion he had just heard between her and the young Vicomte, he was left with no choice. It was time for him to reveal himself._

" _Angel of Music, hide no longer! Come to me, strange angel!"_

_The double-sided mirror slid away from view, as wisps of smoke circled the air. The effect was quite theatrical, and the young girl stood enthralled._

" _I am your angel, come to me: Angel of Music!"_

_She tentatively stepped toward his outstretched hand. Outside, he barely heard the muffled voice of the baffled Vicomte question the strange sounds coming from within his beloved's room. He paid the nobleman no heed, focusing his hypnotic gaze upon his prey._

_When she finally put her hand in his, he pulled her into the hallway and closed the door behind them. All of the torches in the hall were lit for this special occasion, and she stared at them in wonder. He smirked, wishing to know what the hallucinogen made her see. But it seemed, despite her curiosity, she mostly kept her eyes trained upon him._

_She sang her fascination at finding out the true identity of her tutor…her Angel of Music. He gently led her down the spiral stairway and responded in kind. There was no rush, now that he had her. The only resistance she put up was to glance behind at the path they'd come from. No one knew she was with him. The damned Vicomte was probably worried, but he would have no clue as to where to begin his search._

_Cesar was tied to the wall at the base of the stairs. He dutifully awaited further instruction from his master. Once Christine was placed atop him, he calmly followed the Phantom's lead toward the dock._

_The dark-haired beauty allowed him to help her dismount, not seeming to care that the Phantom of the Opera was grabbing her barely-clothed body. He doubted that she even realized how little she was wearing. Dressed in pure white, her skin radiated an ethereal glow. Her perfect hair fell into curls that cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. She looked like a porcelain doll. A very adult porcelain doll._

_She obediently seated herself onto the wooden bench within the small boat. Now that she was facing away from him, her eyes swept her surroundings. He saw nothing more than the wooden craft and the silent, dark waters. Ahead, the gate to his domain blocked much of the view of their final destination. Christine, on the other hand, was still in her delusional state. She smiled in wonder at unseen things all around them._

" _Sing for me, my Angel of Music!" The words left his lips automatically, needing to hear her voice echo throughout his territory. She obeyed, singing an ascending scale to test her soprano range._

_Now that they had arrived, he assisted her out of the boat. He encouraged her to continue her warm-up, loving the fact that he was finally in the presence of his songbird. She reached the apex of her range and exhaled the final note. She was breathless and waiting for him to make the next move._

_He left her standing near the boat, confident that she would not try to escape him. After throwing off his cloak, he addressed her._

" _I have brought you to the seat of sweet music's throne, to this kingdom where all must pay homage to music…music…"_

_The drug in her system did not completely lessen her fear of him. He had never seen her eyes so wide. He sang to her, pled with her. Her expression did not change, so he changed tactics._

" _Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation; darkness wakes and stirs imagination. Silently the senses abandon their defenses…"_

_The tune was soothing, pacifying. Her face relaxed and listened to his reassuring voice. He beckoned to her, inviting her to come further into his home. She slowly obeyed, less enchanted than before. She was becoming more lucid, as the time passed. Still, his voice proved to be enigmatic enough to hold her blissful attention._

_He slowly walked toward her, until her back was pressed into his front. His hands cautiously embraced her from behind, one around her waist and the other draped around her neck. He lightly swayed her side to side against him, continuing his song. Her eyes were closed, so he closed his._

" _Floating, falling, sweet intoxication. Touch me, trust me, savor each sensation!"_

_When he felt her hand lightly rest upon his mask, he smiled. There was no sign that she wished to unmask him. It was a simple caress. He found himself wishing that he could feel her hand on his bare cheek, instead._

" _Let the dream begin! Let your darker side give in, to the power of the music that I write…" His eyes opened to glance down at her beautiful blonde hair._

" _The power of the music of-"_

_Wait a minute…blonde?_

_He stepped away from Christine, still mid-lyric. But it was not Christine. Not any longer._

_Meg stared dreamily back at him. The hand that had held his masked face slowly came to rest within the other. She left her hands clasped in front of her, looking as demure as possible. The white lingerie that had made Christine look so alluring was positively sinful on Meg's much curvier body._

_She deftly approached him with cat-like grace. Her hands reached up to cup his cheeks and she stood on her tiptoes to touch her lips to his._

_He accepted the kiss with fervor. The volunteered affection was more than he could have ever hoped for, so he let himself indulge his desire. His hands pet the length of her flaxen locks, before coming to rest on her hips. One hand dared to slip further down, curious to see how she would respond to such an advance._

_As he fondled her petite buttock, she moaned shamelessly into his occupied mouth. He grinned into their sustained kiss and pushed his tongue against hers. Her arms went around his neck, trying to pull him closer. He responded by picking her up and walking them back to his bedchambers._

_He laid her upon his velvet comforter and pulled away. She watched him with bated breath, as he pulled his gloves off and discarded them onto the floor. He wanted so badly to feel her. His black jacket followed, meeting the gloves._

_Impatient for what was to come, the little minx sat up onto her knees and reached for his arms. She pulled him down to the bed, where he compliantly lay. He smiled at her, amused by her eagerness._

_She straddled him boldly, the chiffon cape billowing behind her to land upon his knees. He appreciatively grabbed her delicate bottom with both hands, while she bent over to kiss him again. They kissed passionately, unhurriedly…as if they had all the time in the world._

_Deep down, he couldn't decide if this was what he wanted. No, not 'what'…_ who _. Did he really want this with Meg? Was he so desperate for affection that any pretty girl would do?_

_She pulled away and stood over him. Her eyes twinkled mischievously. He looked up at her, confused as to what would come next. Slowly, languorously, she stripped herself of what little clothing covered her. His body felt aflame, practically consuming itself in desire._

_Still moving at a tantalizingly sluggish speed, she lowered herself back onto him. Seizing the opportunity to take control of the pace, he rolled her under him and assaulted her with his hands and mouth. She gasped in a pleasurably surprised way and did her best to keep up. With one hand he freed himself from his pants and plunged into her wet heat with one movement._

_Her moans were like a seductive aria, delighting him in a way he had not thought possible._

" _Oh, Erik…"_

_He held his breath, but continued to move inside her. He was suddenly desperate to hear her say more._

" _I love you!"_

_He smiled into the crook of her neck and rolled them over again. Back on top, she stayed mounted upon his length and rocked her hips against his. He let out a feral growl and allowed her to continue. Her back arched in the most attractive way, pushing her wares in his direction for his viewing enjoyment._

_He had been with a woman in this way, before, and he knew that it was one of the optimum positions for creating a desirable amount of friction. Meg seemed to innately know it as well, innocent as she was, and her moans increased to a feverish pitch. Avid to help her along, he grabbed her hips and slid her in time with the rhythm she set; his teeth clenched in frustration, as he struggled to hold off his own release._

_She came with a hoarse scream that echoed throughout the underground. He believed it to be his new favorite sound. He wished to hear it, again…but not tonight. Now, it was his turn._

_After her climax, she collapsed on top of him. Her slightly sweaty skin pressed into the vest that he still donned. She breathed deeply, nuzzling her head against his broad chest, and he calmly stroked her back. He was still sheathed inside of her, but he forced himself to remain unmoving._

_He gently rolled her back onto the bed. Her eyes were finally open, although they were half-lidded. She stared at him adoringly. He felt strange. It was how he had always wanted Christine to look at him. But she never had. She probably never would._

_Meg nodded for him to begin, and he did. He started slowly, feeling his entire length fill her. An idea struck him, and he grabbed her leg to place it over his shoulder. Ah, the benefits of being with a flexible ballerina. The faux split allowed him to penetrate her even deeper, which brought him much closer to his own climax._

_He ground into her, relieved to hear her strained breathing. She was almost there, too, it seemed. He gave an extra push against her opening with each thrust, which garnished another satisfied scream from her beautiful lips. He came with her._

" _Ahhhhh...Meg!"_

_She looked at him then, completely sobered by his declaration. He met her gaze with confusion. Had he said something wrong?_

_Her eyes watered, and he worried that he had hurt her in some unknown way. When she smiled, he breathed a sigh of relief and returned her smile with one of his own._

_Cautiously, she reached up to remove his mask. He knew she was about to do it, and, to his amazement, he let her._

_She placed the mask onto the bed and studied his deformity. He let her touch it…touch him. He let her explore what he hated most about himself. Her eyes were wide. She looked…fearful, saddened. And also, relieved. He stayed frozen above her, afraid that any movement would scare her further. But she didn't look frightened._

_She smiled, again, and raised her hands to his cheeks. She brought his face down to hers and gave him another long kiss._

_He had felt this before. The feeling of having no boundary between himself and the lips of a beautiful woman. But it seemed so long ago. And the experience had been limited. That kiss had been reserved, restricted to a very noble goal. It was dedicated to making him feel, making him empathize._

_This kiss was unabashedly for the sake of feeling_ him _. Meg kissed him as if she wanted to feel all of him, and she was relieved that he had let her do so. He ardently responded, relishing the sensation._

_They parted for air, still in a daze from their amorous state. He rolled off of her and she curled her naked body into his; her hand went to his heart, while her leg entangled with his. She rested her head on his chest and kissed the material there. He embraced her and held her to him. Content, he closed his eyes._

_He did want her. Maybe he needed her._

" _You alone can make my song take flight," he softly sang, just barely above a whisper. "Help me make the music of the night."_

_He felt her nuzzle into him, again, and he smiled._

" _Ah, Meg…"_

"What?"

Erik roused from his dream, but his mind was still struggling to separate reality from the fantasy.

"Erik?"

Meg, on the other hand, sounded completely cognizant.

"What?" he grumbled out.

"What do you want?"

The Phantom was still lying on his back, staring into darkness. He was utterly confused by her question.

"What do you mean, 'what do I want'? It's the middle of the night. I _want_ to be left alone to sleep!"

"But…but you said my name," she reasoned.

Snippets of what he had been dreaming about came back to him, at that moment. He tried to recall why he would have said Meg's name. He felt strangely aroused… When he remembered, he clenched his jaw.

He couldn't be blamed for calling out her name, after they had just had sex. Both in reality and in his dream. He hadn't meant to say it aloud, but…well, apparently it had happened. And she had heard.

"I suppose I wanted you to move over."

The lie was uninspired, to say the least, but he was unable to improvise anything more convincing.

"Oh," she replied, sounding oddly disappointed. "I'm sorry, I really can't-"

"No, no," he interrupted. "It's fine. Just let me go back to sleep. And I would suggest you do the same, Miss Giry."

She didn't respond.

In the silence, he struggled to remember more of the dream. He was with Christine, and it was after her debut in _Hannibal_. The first time he had taken her to his lair. The only time she had come, willingly, to his home. She sang for him, he sang to her.

And then, he was singing to…Meg? He had been surprised to see Meg in his dream. It had been his most intimate memory with Christine. What on earth was Meg doing there?

He had seduced Meg…or had she seduced him? It was predictable that he would dream about having sex with Meg. They had only just slept together earlier that very night.

She had been crying in his dream…or something. And he let her take of his mask. That was something he would never allow. Not in reality.

He listened for Meg's even breathing. It was even, but shallow. Not the type of deep breaths one would hear from a slumbering person.

"Meg?"

She still didn't answer.

"Meg? Are you awake?"

"I told you, I cannot move over."

He hesitated, not sure if asking the next question would be wise.

"Are you…okay?"

There was a lengthy pause.

"You called me 'Christine'."

"I did what?"

"When we were…before…you called me 'Christine'."

Erik sighed, knowing exactly what she meant.

"I am sorry, Meg. I did not do so on purpose."

"What do you mean, 'you didn't do so on purpose'?"

He took a deep breath. This was going further than he wanted, but he supposed he owed her an explanation.

"When I was with other…ladies, shall we say, I usually called them Christine."

"Ladies?"

"I couldn't very well be with your little friend, so I endured other company," he snapped. "It was one of my requests that they let me call them 'Christine'."

"Oh."

He had been unwise to open this discussion. She, on the other hand, seemed wise enough to let the subject drop. He slowly drifted off to sleep, satisfied that he had given her enough justification to calm her concerns.

"Erik?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm not her."

He clenched his jaw, not appreciating where this was going.

"I know that."

"And I'll never be her."

"Trust me, I understand that with perfect clarity. Now, goodnight, Meg."

His words were firm, final. She didn't say anything else to him, and he didn't wait to hear her speak. If she wanted to dwell on such a trivial thing, she was welcome to do so.

The Phantom slept soundly, no longer plagued by strange dreams.


	15. Once More

He hadn't meant to call her by her friend's name. The mistake was innocent, as he no longer held cruel intentions toward the young ballerina. He simply called out the only name he had ever said in the throes of pleasure: Christine. The whores had not minded.

But Meg was no whore.

Erik had to remind himself that, in most respects, Meg was still quite the naïve little child. Her sheltered upbringing would, of course, shape her expectations of every new experience she encountered. He had to tread carefully, so that she would not assume too much.

He glanced up from the composition he was working on to view the still sleeping girl. There was no denying that he felt protective of her. Stealing her away from her mother placed the little dancer under his charge, and he would make sure that nothing happened to her. But she was still no Christine.

When his mind drifted to his musical protégé, he closed his eyes in frustration. The hand that held pen to paper flexed unexpectedly, and the pen dropped to the incomplete page. He did not bother to pick it back up, as his mind was now blocked.

He began to hum a tune that he had composed as a remedy to his creative block. It calmed his agitated state, and it had developed, little by little, into a fully-fledged song itself.

_And music, your music, it teases at my ear! I turn, and it fades away, and you're not here. Let hopes pass, let dreams pass, let them die! Without you, what are they for? I'll always feel…_

Meg's eyes fluttered open and her mouth opened to let out a wide yawn. Erik abruptly stopped his humming. Just as she was sitting up, he picked the pen back up to avert his eyes.

Realizing she was still nude, Meg picked up the Phantom's cape to cover her nakedness. She furrowed her brow and grabbed her garments from the cabin floor. Restoring some of her modesty, she discarded the cape onto the floor in retaliation.

Erik noticed her act of disrespect but made no comment, aside from a raised eyebrow and a glance to her now clothed form. Once again inspired, he thoughtfully continued the lyrics he had been working on earlier.

Meg did not interrupt his work, instead opting to finish _Notre-Dame de Paris_. The day passed in silence, with only the muffled crew sounds filtering through the cabin.

Later in the day, when she had finished the novel, she placed it back into the basket of books. Erik engaged her in conversation, curious to hear her review of one of his favorite stories.

"I…well," she cleared her throat to allow herself time to gather her thoughts. "It was different than I thought it would be. _Le Comte de Monte-Cristo_ had a different ending than I wished for, but it was still…happy. Appropriate."

"You think the ending of _Notre-Dame de Paris_ is inappropriate?" he skeptically asked.

"No, not inappropriate, just incredibly sad. Everyone dies…"

"Not the gallant Captain Phoebus. He had a happy ending."

"I wouldn't call a marriage with a spiteful woman such as Fleur-de-Lys 'happy'," she countered.

Erik chuckled. Meg smiled half-heartedly before continuing.

"Why did Esmeralda have to die?"

The Phantom let his jovial expression melt into sincerity.

"She was a martyr for her kind."

"The gypsies?" Meg questioned.

"No," he replied. "The charitable, the loyal, and the accepting. She represented everything that humanity should be. But, ultimately, she was rejected. It shows what happens to the idealistic."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I'll let you decide for yourself."

He returned to his work, leaving her to think on what he had said.

Meg still stared at the Phantom. _He said it was about misperceptions._ She bent down to retrieve the last two books from the basket: _Madame Bovary_ and _Les Misérables._ The latter was the thickest novel she had ever seen. She left that one alone and pulled _Madame Bovary_ from the pile.

It started out pleasant enough, a simple story about a shy lad who was engaged to a widow he did not love. He met a beautiful young woman and, after the rather opportune death of his fiancé, began to court her.

Erik glanced up every so often to check her reactions to what she was reading. He gained no satisfaction that particular night, as Meg placed the book onto the table and lay down. It was then that he realized that he, too, was too exhausted to continue. There were only a few days left on their voyage to America, and Erik pressed two fingers to his temple in strained thought. He still had much to do.

Meg's willing participation in helping him gain resources for Phantasma was quite crucial, as they neared the foreign coastline. For her to help him find talent, gain the trust of financiers, and use her previous dance experience to build the show would swiftly expedite the process. Her help would mean the difference in opening Phantasma within months instead of years.

He needed to tread even more carefully.

His initial anger had wedged a gap between them. Although he had made some progress, he knew that landing in a bustling city would encourage Meg to flee him at her first viable opportunity. If, however, he could earn her loyalty, she would hesitate to leave one devil for what might possibly be another.

As he lay next to her, Meg turned to face him.

"Am I going to bear your child?"

"What on earth are you talking about?" he responded astonishedly.

She hesitated, feeling incredibly unknowledgeable about her own body. "Will our… joining result in a baby?"

It was Erik's turn to hesitate, as he contemplated how to answer without flustering her further.

"As far as I know," he cautiously stated, "I have not impregnated any woman that I have had intercourse with." He turned his head to look at her, but she stared at the ceiling of their room. "I doubt that I will ever have any offspring, but I am prepared to cross that bridge if I come to it. Is that all?"

Meg sighed. She was somewhat relieved by his answer, but, until her cycle proved him right, her worry would only grow with each day.

"I suppose that IS all," she whispered. Turning over, she fell asleep. When Erik turned to her and placed his arm over her resting body, her jaw clenched. But she let him hold her.

_She wasn't aware how quickly she had entered this dreamscape, but Meg knew exactly where and when she was. Christine had disappeared from her dressing room. The Vicomte had scoured the entire backstage for his childhood sweetheart, but it was as if Christine had vanished into the air. Meg had only just finished celebrating with her fellow dancers on the success of their company's production of Hannibal. She was in her room, preparing for bed, when her mother burst in to see if Christine was with her._

" _Gone? I walked with her to her room, Mama. She was down in the chapel, still in her costume."_

" _Did she say anything to you? Did she give you any indication of where she might go?"_

" _I…" Meg started. "I can't think of anything. She was just babbling about an angel that she believed gifted her with…"_

" _An angel?" her mother interrupted. "What did she say about the angel?"_

" _She said he was her angel of music and that she thought he was all around her. And she asked him to 'hide no longer.' I think she was frightened by some spirit, and I had a difficult time consoling her."_

_Meg had noticed the color of her mother's face pale to a ghastly hue. She paused and waited for her mother to speak._

"Him _?" she queried. The single word was less a question and more a confirmation of a hidden thought that haunted her mother's eyes. Madame Giry shook herself out of her trance and gave a tight-lipped smile to her only child. "You go to bed, now, Meg. I am sure Christine is fine. Good night."_

_The ballet matron gracefully exited the room. Meg was unsettled by her mother's strange demeanor and still baffled as to why her friend was missing. After giving her mother's footsteps a chance to echo down the hallway, she quietly left her dormitory and made her way to Christine's dressing room._

_The door was open. The room was dark. Placing the candle she'd brought from her own room onto a small table, Meg glanced around at the dozens of expensive bouquets that decorated the large room. Nothing appeared to be out of place. The chair of the vanity was pulled away from its nook, either an oversight of orderliness or simply convenient for the user's next seating._

_There was, however, a single rose that lay on the floor, near the large mirror at the far end of the room. Meg bent down to inspect the lone flower, noting its deep crimson petals and the silk ribbon that was tied to the stem. Black. Odd. Who would choose such a morose color?_

_As she rose from her crouched position, she felt a cold breeze brush past her, back toward the entrance. Her hand followed the thin stream of air to the side of the mirror. With both hands, she pulled on the heavy looking glass._

_A hallway. A dark, dingy, cobweb-infested, menacing hallway. Meg's nose scrunched at the stale smell of water and dust, but she bravely ventured forth to find out if Christine was at the end of this perilous path. She glanced back at the mirror and her eyes widened when she realized that she could see the entirety of the dressing room. Chills erupted on her body._

_Her pointe shoes lightly clicked against the stone floor, and they were the only noise that accompanied her. She looked back to where she had come from, again, to assess how far away she was from the safety of her known world. A rat's squeak beneath her feet pulled her attention and her heart skipped a beat. She jumped back and watched the creature scurry away to a crevice in the wall. She felt a gloved hand on her shoulder and she froze._

_She looked directly into the eyes of the Phantom himself._

" _It's you!" she exclaimed._

_He regarded her with curiosity. Although his countenance didn't seem particularly murderous at the moment, Meg was too familiar with the legends of the Opera Ghost to be at ease._

_She backed away from him slowly, taking steady steps back to the dressing room. Her eyes never left his, and she treated him like a bull that would charge if provoked. As she distanced herself from him, his eyes glinted with amusement. But as she stepped closer to the mirror door, his eyes narrowed. He strode toward her._

_She let out a shriek of fear and abandoned her original retreat for speed. She made it to the door and closed it behind her. She fled the room, and abruptly ran into her mother in the corridor outside._

_Her mother looked upon her disapprovingly and shook her head. She said not one word to Meg; her arm simply raised to point the wayward ballerina back to the corps dormitories._

_Meg caught her breath. She gave a demure smile and walked peacefully back to her own room._

_Inside, she prepared for bed, finally pulling off her costume and pointe shoes. She used the vanity in the communal lavatory to brush out her hair and clean her mouth. She washed her face with cold water and made her way back to her room._

_Before getting in bed, she glanced at the mirror that hung upon her wall. She walked over and lifted it away from the flat surface. No gloomy opening appeared to be behind it. She returned it to its original position and walked toward her bed._

_Laying atop the sheets was a single crimson rose, adorned with an ominous black ribbon._


	16. Future Possibilities

**Before we begin, I wanted to apologize for any anachronisms present in my writing (and, yes, I know there are SO MANY). Some writers on this platform do tons of research to make sure their story is consistent with the time frame it is set in. I do a Google search here and there, but I'm not going for that level of perfection without being paid (so, never).**

**That's all. Thanks!**

**Jenn**

* * *

Meg awoke from the dream with such a start that she found herself sitting up in the bed. Beside her, the Phantom slept soundly for the first night since their voyage had begun. His body had, in sleep, moved him into a position that no longer included him cradling her.

She recalled pieces of her dream. Her mother barging into her room to tell her the news of Christine's disappearance. Yes, that had actually happened. Her leaving the dorms to seek out her friend's whereabouts. Finding the secret corridor behind the mirror in the dressing room. Both of those were accurate to her memory's recollection. The Phantom's hand… no. It had been her mother who had found her in that dreary hallway.

Madame Giry had led her daughter out of the darkness, through the room, and back into the foyer, before pointing with a stern look in the direction toward her daughter's room. Meg had, indeed, checked her hanging mirror to see if it, too, allowed her to be spied upon. It was only a normal mirror hanging on a normal wall.

She remembered her dream self finding the Phantom's signature rose on her bed, and she looked down to where Erik's body lay. It was too dark in their cabin to see anything, let alone glimpse the deformity that famously marred his face. She imagined reaching over to light the candle, but she reined in the impulse. Erik would most definitely wake in her fumbling to do so.

Buquet had spun such frightening stories and descriptions of the man who sat beside her.

" _Like yellow parchment is his skin…a great black hole serves as the nose that never grew…"_

The Phantom most certainly had a nose. Well, at least part of one, from what she could see.

When Christine had returned from her absence, Firmin and Andre were completely deluded in their insistence that Raoul was responsible. Carlotta and Piangi were convinced that it was a conspiracy between the Vicomte and the owners to stir public interest and fuel the ingenue's popularity. Raoul had, at first, blamed Andre and Firmin for trying to keep their new _prima donna_ away from him, but, at the end of their private meeting, seemed unsure of what had happened. Only Meg and her mother knew where Christine must have been.

Meg could not help but ask her friend about the experience with O.G. But Christine would only give vague answers. And when Meg pressed about a physical description of the mysterious man, Christine only shuddered. Surely the stories that Buquet spun were true, then.

Before finding that her friend's dressing room had a hidden door, Meg wasn't sure that the Phantom was corporeal. Strange things had happened over the years she'd lived at the Opera Populaire, but the man that was blamed for every misfortune never appeared to be more than a shadow. Even her mother, who seemed to be oddly knowledgeable about the Phantom's wishes, refused to give credence to any of the rumors that Buquet spread.

Once, Meg had seen an envelope in her mother's office. It had a blood red seal in the shape of a skull. She did not pair it with the Phantom until Madame Giry had reluctantly shown her the newest correspondence after her friend's disappearance.

Then the grand masquerade had revealed the Phantom to be a man. A very intimidating man. But no longer a ghost. He sang onstage in place of Piangi, opposite Christine, within his own opera. When she had unmasked him, the crowd had let out a horrified cry. Meg and the other dancers had looked up to where the duo stood on the set, but their vantage point did not allow them to see much of anything besides two silhouettes. The Phantom and Christine had plunged down through the center of the stage, and the theatre erupted in chaos. The chandelier had crashed to the stage, narrowly missing Meg and her fellow dancers and actors. In the ensuing fire, performers and patrons alike trampled each other in desperation to leave the building.

Erik finally stirred next to her, and Meg halted her thoughts. She felt him move from his side of their bed and heard the familiar noises of him placing his mask upon his face. Light then filled their cabin. He sat at the table, his back to her.

"Good morning?"

"Good morning, Meg."

"Any idea how much longer we will be confined to this boat?"

Erik reached into the food crate and pulled out a rather ripe-looking plum.

"Hopefully no more than a few days, or I will have to become rather strict in our rations."

Meg frowned. Erik handed her the plum, his back still to her. She ate the plum in silence and threw the pit into the corner of the room.

After eating, Erik pulled a stack of papers from underneath the table and poured into their contents. Meg had no desire to read, and she was perturbed by the Phantom's disregarding of her presence. She rose from the bed and looked over his shoulder to see what held his interest. The papers were a mess of sketches, lyrics, and other writings. Some of it was in French, some was unreadable…probably English.

Erik felt Meg's hair brush against his shoulder, but he made no effort to hide his musings on Phantasma.

"You may watch me work, if you like, but is there nothing else you'd rather be doing?" he asked.

"I'm bored. Can I help you with the show in any way?"

"I doubt it. Not at this time, anyway. Didn't you start a new book?"

"It's not as interesting as the first two."

"You've hardly read enough of it to make that assumption," he said with a secretive smirk.

"After reading two novels, I think I deserve another type of diversion while imprisoned." Erik noted the sullen tone in her voice. He stood to face her and gave her a probing look. She seemed surprised that he had stopped his musings to do so.

"I can think of another 'diversion' that we would enjoy equally," he purred in his low voice.

His hand went to cup her cheek, but she pulled away from him and narrowed her eyes. She pushed past him, away from the bed, and sat across from his seat at the table. Erik sighed and sat back down. He stared deeply into her eyes, seeing the hurt that they still held.

"Meg, I am sorry. I am truly sorry for what I…said. It was disrespectful, and I completely understand why you want to keep your distance." Her arms were crossed under her chest, so he gently reached across the table and took one of her hands into his own. "But we are separated, now, from everything we've known. You and I both. I will have access to some of my fortune, enough to keep us comfortable, but not enough to finance a production like the one I am planning. I want it to be huge. I want you to be my star."

"What will you be doing? Will you perform, as well?" She looked dubious.

"I will be, as always, working in the background. Andre and Firmin were terrible managers, Lefevre was much more adept at the job, and now that burden will be solely on me." His countenance became hard, then, with a slight tick in his jaw. "Also, I may have left my colorful reputation as the Opera Ghost behind, but my face will still overshadow my work, if I am in the foreground of Phantasma."

Meg's resolve melted, a bit, unable to stop herself from empathizing with her captor. She gently pulled her hand away, but Erik's grip firmly held it in place. She looked down to his hands and then back up to his face. His eyes were no longer hardened and he gave her a small smile.

"I have enjoyed your company more than I thought would be possible. You are surprising, Meg. Intelligent, witty, and, of course, very beautiful."

She bit her lower lip and watched him silently. His admissions were kind, but she was wary of his motives.

"What's done is done. We are here, together. We have more in common than I had originally thought." Her eyes widened at that statement. He elaborated, seeing her disbelief. "Both of us are meant for the theatre, you as a performer, myself as a composer and manager. We have traumatic pasts that we still carry with us. Both of us lost everything that we once had, granted, at my own hand, but that gives us only one option: to move forward and not look back."

Meg opened her mouth to speak, but she hesitated and looked away.

"When we arrive in New York, you will be at much of a disadvantage, that is true. But only on your own." She looked back into his eyes and saw that his soft expression had turned very serious. Calculating. "I have the means and the ability to protect you. I will be able to secure accommodations for us, while we search for a permanent theatre home. I will supply you a new wardrobe, so that you are not traipsing about in a tattered costume. You will be safe under my guardianship.

"But," he continued, this time, with a malicious glimmer in his eyes. "If you try to run from me, you will find that the next person to take you in may not care about where or how you end up. You would be foolish to gamble with your life in such a manner." He squeezed her hand and stood, pulling her up to stand with him. Her expression went blank, too overwhelmed by everything he had said, and by the decision that niggled at the back of her mind.

He wrapped his arms around her and sang in a soft, gentle tone. Like a lullaby.

" _Close your eyes, start a journey to a strange new world; leave all thoughts of the life you knew before. Close your eyes, and let music set you free…"_

His lips met hers, without her registering that he had halted their embrace to do so. She saw that his eyes were closed, and this seemed to reflexively make her eyes close, too. His hands went to the nape of her neck and the small of her back, deepening the kiss and pouring passion into her already deluged mind. Although her hands remained at her sides, she allowed him to connect with her intimately. A very small part of her felt relieved that he wanted to make such a loving gesture toward her.

He led her toward the bed, keeping her lips locked to his own. He lay her down carefully, kissing down her neck.

Her thoughts were muddled, and she felt trapped within his arms and within the small room they shared. She fantasized about escaping from their cabin, finding a sailor who would help her return to France. She saw the poor young man being strangled to death, and her being dragged back to the hidden compartment, having lost all of the Phantom's trust. She imagined finding a French immigrant who would pity her and pay for her fare back to France. Then she saw the various outcomes that could mean either her ruin or death.

As Erik continued his ministrations, Meg thought about starring in Phantasma. After gaining Erik's complete trust, she imagined what America could hold for her. Living close enough to the ocean to enjoy the sights and sounds. Traveling to new places. Maybe, after a few years, meeting a gentleman whom she would marry. Erik allowing her to find a replacement for herself in his show, and her convincing her new husband to take her to see her homeland. Finding her mother and sharing the story of everything she had experienced while they were apart.

Erik pressed his body atop hers, letting her feel his arousal through both of their clothed bodies.

 _Perhaps not everything_ , Meg thought, flushing at the contact and what she knew was to come.

He moved his hands under her blouse, slowly raking his fingertips along her sides. Meg gasped and giggled at the ticklish gesture. Erik paused to look at her, but, realizing what she was reacting to, he gave her a knowing smirk and proceeded to divest her of all of her clothing. Every item was carefully placed upon the back of one of the chairs at the table.

She raised her eyebrows at this tiny measure of thoughtfulness, and he started to remove his own clothing. Into a heap on the floor. Under her breath, almost imperceptively, she gave a small snort.

He crawled on top of her and leisurely caressed her naked body. Using one arm, he braced his body alongside hers, and pressed his hand to the apex of her thighs. He stared into her eyes, finding them clouded with worry and uncertainty. As he began to stimulate her, her own arousal pushed the nervousness from her expression. When she was breathing heavily, he entered her with a triumphant smile.

He looked into her eyes the entire time their bodies connected. Reaching the height of her climax, she closed her eyes and pulled his head toward hers to kiss him, again. He moved to the crook of her neck and kissed her there. She couldn't believe how amazing his body felt. How well he filled her. When she felt him move more strongly against her, she held him tightly. He was a life-preserver and she was most definitely lost at sea. She clung to him in desperation, right or wrong.

After finishing, he fell alongside her. He pulled her close, into their normal sleeping position. Lightly, his fingers continued to explore her body. Not sexual in nature, but in a comforting, soothing manner.

She fell asleep, sated and still tired from her restless night.

" _DID I NOT INSTRUCT THAT BOX FIVE WAS TO BE KEPT EMPTY?!"_

_Meg saw the shadow of the Phantom at the very top of dome of the Opera, mostly hidden by the grand chandelier._

" _He's here!" Meg pointed toward the small walkway that circled the dome. "The Phantom of the Opera!"_

_The dark figure fled from view. Next to her, onstage, she heard Christine chime in to confirm._

" _It's him!"_

" _YOUR part is SILENT, little toad!" Carlotta had spat back at the young ingenue. She moved offstage to refresh her voice with the fancy spritzer that was always ready and waiting for her._

_Then, Carlotta's normal harsh soprano had deteriorated into a terrible croaking noise. She seemed possessed, unable to stop making the horrible sound as it echoed throughout the theatre._

_Firmin and Andre had bumbled onstage, announced that Christine would be taking over for the suffering diva, and that, to occupy the audience's attention, the ballet from Act Three would take place…now._

_The entire corps, Madame Giry, Monsieur Reyer, the orchestra, and the stage crew flew into action as everyone prepped to present a musical number completely out of the order of the production. The first few stanzas were chaotic, as set pieces, backdrops, and props seemed to be thrown into view. And the sheep. And a hanging moon. The dancers carefully navigated around the perils onstage, trying not to let it affect their performance. Madame Giry would accept nothing as an excuse, not even a disobedient sheep._

_Meg danced her role, looking coquettish as a shepherdess. Whenever she looked up, she swore she saw two shadows that ran across the rafters. Probably harried stage hands. She knew one would most likely be that letch, Buquet._

_The body fell through the rafters before Meg and the others could effectively process what it was. A sandbag? A piece of set? They all ran to get out of the way. Right before the rope that held it was either cut or broken from the strain of the weight, everyone saw that it was a man. A dead man. Those who knew him, knew it was Buquet. His lifeless eyes bulged, his tongue stuck out, and his neck was broken at a horrific angle. The body fell the remaining six or so feet, then crashed onto the hardwood floor._

_She and everyone screamed and scrambled to run away from the sickening sight._

_She ran to her room and closed the door. When she backed away from the entrance, her body ran into a large form behind it. She spun around and saw the Phantom. He held a crimson rose with a black ribbon. The one she had found on her bed. She looked down at it and blinked, trying to piece something together that was at the outskirts of her mind._

" _It's not yours," he said, plainly._

" _I know that," she replied. Reflexively. Defensively. She took a step back from him and felt behind her for the doorknob._

" _But you want it, anyway, don't you?" His expression was a mixture of curiosity and ridicule._

_Her hand closed around the knob, but she did not open it immediately._

" _I…" she shook her head. "Where is Christine?" She fought her body's impulse to shiver in his presence._

" _Probably with that pathetic Vicomte who is determined to steal her from me." His words were angry, but he said them without much conviction. He seemed bored by it all. "Why are you afraid, little Giry? I've done nothing to harm you."_

" _You murdered Buquet!"_

" _Yes," he smiled at her with sincerity. "You're welcome for that."_

_She scoffed in response. "That wasn't what I wanted! It was what YOU wanted!"_

_The Phantom's smile stayed plastered to his face as he stepped toward her._

_The doorknob turned in her hand with ease, and she ran out of the room as if she were being pursued by evil itself._

_But, when she looked back, there was no one behind her._


	17. Seething Shadows

"What do you see," Meg said with great pride. "You people gazing at me?"

"Excellent, Meg," Erik complimented. "Your diction and pronunciation are already much improved. Continue."

"You see a girl oohn a music box…"

"No, remember, we changed the word 'girl' to 'doll'. Easier to pronounce and more appropriate for the song."

"You see a doll oohn a music box…"

"Yes, better. The 'on' is spelled 'o-n', but, in this case, the 'o' is pronounced more like a soft 'ah' sound."

Meg rolled the different sounds around her mouth, trying to force her tongue and lips into the positions needed to pronounce the foreign words.

"English is so difficult," she sighed.

Erik smiled and nodded his assent. "Yes, I agree that it is very difficult to learn. And, as you become more fluent, you will still be receiving constant corrections where exceptions to the rules apply."

Meg shook her head.

He handed her the lyrics, which, while still in English, were also marked extensively with notes that Meg had made to help her with her pronunciation and translation. It was a pretty little song. Not too intimidating, for her first sung solo. Erik sang it fully, and she was grateful that it did not contain notes that would be a strain for her to sing. While it had been inspired by the tune and description of her childhood music box, he had elaborated on the music, adding a true melodic line and elongating the song.

They enjoyed lunch together at the single table. Erik still outlining the show and what he would need to secure in order to have it meet his high expectations. Meg ate and looked over the sheets of music that went to the song. _Her_ song.

"Will I be on a moving pedestal?"

Erik looked up at her. "Yes, I think that we could arrange some type of mechanized box for you to dance upon. You would be turning rather slowly, of course."

Meg looked thoughtful. "I'm not sure that I could move much of my lower body. I would need to keep my feet in place for stability. Would that work for your vision of the song?"

"I'm confident you will choreograph movement that will be a perfect fit. It is as much your song as it is mine, Meg." He looked back down to his sheath of papers, settling on a casting call that he had only half-finished.

Meg rose from her seated position, leaving the Phantom to his work, and grabbed _Madame Bovary_ from where she had last left it. She lay on the bed, skimmed through the parts that she had already read to refresh her memory, then continued.

At the end of the day, Erik's writing hand was sore and stained with ink from all of his scribblings and writings. He flexed and shook his hand to remove some of his discomfort; he took a rag and some bathing water to wash off as much of the ink as possible.

Meg, after a light dinner, had placed the book back in its spot in the basket and retired back to the bed. Erik sat alongside her, extinguished the candle, and removed his mask to sleep. He turned his body to face hers and wrapped an arm around her midsection.

"Where are you in the book?" he inquired. He sounded exhausted, but his voice was still clear.

She yawned before answering. "Emma and Charles are in Yonville, they had a baby, and I'm fairly certain that Emma will be a terrible mother. She just met some young man."

"Ah, the dashing Léon."

"Yes."

"And what do you think of the story thus far?"

In the dark, Meg scrunched her nose in disdain. "I don't like it. What was the word you used to describe it? When I first asked you about all your novels?"

Erik paused to think. "I think I used the word 'disillusionment'."

"What does that mean, exactly?"

"It means feeling disappointed as the result of having your hopes or expectations dashed by reality."

Meg thought on that statement for a long while.

"I think I know how the story ends."

Erik didn't respond, and she knew from his deep, even breathing that he was asleep.

She wasn't certain why, but his definition of the word upset her more than she knew it should. _It's just a word_ , she reasoned. She closed her eyes and willed sleep to visit her, as well.

_Meg had never felt so beautiful. Her costume resembled a white, elegant bird. Looking down at the low neckline, trimmed with white feathers, she blushed and wondered if her ensemble was too much. Or, rather, too little. She had affixed long filo plumes in her hair that elongated her neck and swayed prettily with any move she made._

_A masquerade! What fun! Perhaps Andre and Firmin would improve the Opera Populaire, after all. No one had heard from "O.G." in almost three months. No "accidents," no notes, no disasters, no abductions. No voice ringing out from nowhere and everywhere all at once. Perhaps he had found a new theatre to haunt._

_She arrived to the ball with her mother, amidst a sea of dancing couples. Madame Giry had chosen a traditional geisha costume to wear, which made for an odd coupling next to her daughter. The two of them greeted Firmin and Andre, along with their dates who happened to be in the ballet corps. Meg smiled sweetly at Elise and Sophie, complimenting her friends on their uniquely glamorous attire._

_Carlotta and Piangi arrived and pushed their way to where the owners stood. Meg and her mother made polite conversation, then they meandered to the far side of the grand staircase to take in the view._

_Christine and the Vicomte arrived in all of their glory, looking absolutely stunning together. Meg smiled sadly as they twirled around the room. She was happy for her friend, but she had seen very little of Christine over the past few months. Once they were married, which Meg was sure would be in the near future, they would see even less of each other. Or, God forbid, if the Vicomte abandoned the opera and took his new bride with him, Meg might never see her friend again._

_The masquerade was a whirlwind of color, characters, and movement. Meg had mostly stayed by her mother's side, and no one had approached her to ask her to dance. Her heeled shoes hurt her already sore feet, and she longed to take them off._

_Suddenly the music stopped and everyone's attention was drawn to the top of the very staircase that Meg was still standing upon. She looked up and saw an intimidating figure in a long red coat descending the stairs. His face was obscured by the top half of a skull mask. On one side of his body, a rapier sat in its sheath. In one arm he held a large leather satchel._

_She was confused as to why everyone was acting so afraid of the strange man, until he began to speak. No, not speak. Sing._

" _Why so silent good messieurs? Did you think that I had left you for good?"_

_Chills ran up her spine, when she recognized his voice. The Phantom was back._

_She backed up as far as she could, leaning against the railing. She was fearful, but also intrigued. He was a man. A mortal, regular man. He was lean, but muscular. His hair was very dark, almost a jet black, and slicked back. The skull mask was effectively frightening, but he was not the monster Buquet painted him to be. Meg stared at his face, searching for the deformities. His jaw was unblemished. Overall, he was actually quite handsome._

_He commanded Firmin and Andre to produce the opera he had written, throwing the heavy satchel at the duo. Despite their terror, they caught the manuscript and froze in place. The Phantom moved further down the staircase, approaching Carlotta to deride her acting skills and then mocking Piangi's weight._

_Meg looked to where her mother had been standing, but she was gone. A quick scan of the crowd did not reveal her mother's whereabouts, either. The Phantom's back was to her, and he didn't seem to particularly care who was behind him. His eyes looked out to the center of the crowd and seemed to fixate on one person. Christine. Of course._

_He glanced around the room, singing of his protégé._

" _She has much still to learn, if pride will let her return to me, her teacher…"_

_Christine stood still under his gaze. He approached her and grabbed at her chest. He pulled from her neck a chain that held up a ring._

" _Your chains are still mine! You belong to ME!"_

_Christine was engaged?_

_Raoul ran out to protect his love, armed with a sword of his own. The Phantom ran up the stairs to a large landing and disappeared through a trap door in a cloud of smoke and flame. Undeterred, the Vicomte followed the masked man into the opening. Meg was too far away to see anything else, and there was too much commotion to hear anything that was happening within that hidden area. Apparently, the trap door had abruptly shut right after the Vicomte had fallen through._

_Madame Giry was nowhere to be found. Guests started to leave in droves, and the befuddled owners were doing their best to reassure the patrons and donors that the Phantom was a closing act for the ball._

_Christine was still standing where the Phantom had left her. Her hand was splayed across her chest, and a frown adorned her flawless face. Meg went to console her friend, but the Vicomte ran in behind her and pulled her outside._

_Her mother reappeared, then, and led her daughter back to the dorms. She kissed her daughter goodnight and walked toward her own room, deep in thought._

_Meg walked back through the halls toward the grand foyer. The large room was mostly empty, save for a few workers cleaning up the messes left behind. She climbed the stairs carefully, still regretting wearing the heels. When she reached the landing, she kneeled down to look at the floor. The opening was very well hidden. Only an eye looking for inconsistency would see the faint lines where the carpet ended and then began._

_Had the trapdoor always been there? Did the Phantom use the past three months to painstakingly craft this theatrical exit?_

_She stood back up and made her way back down the staircase. Cursing with each step, she stopped halfway down to sit and remove the offending shoes. She carried them back, walking in her stockings. As she passed a practice room, she stopped in the doorway to look inside._

_The room had a wall full of mirrors, and she was still in her costume. She stepped inside and placed her shoes by the doorway. She admired her reflection. She had waited so long for this night. She sighed and held her arms around an imaginary partner who led her in a waltz._

_Meg could feel a shift in her surroundings. A new presence. She looked toward the doorway and saw him. The Phantom. Still in his Mask of the Red Death costume. The rapier was no longer at his side. He leaned against the wall, watching her silently. She contemplated what to do, as he was blocking the only way out of the room._

" _Your attire is quite fetching, little Giry."_

_She ruffled at his use of her surname. "My name is Meg."_

" _Short for Marguerite?"_

_She nodded._

" _Did you dance? I don't believe I saw you dancing." His eyes glinted with interest._

" _I did not have the opportunity, no." Meg waited for her chance to run by him, no longer happy to be wearing such a hindering garment. Perhaps provoking him might entice him to move from the door. "Your rather dramatic entrance and exit put a damper on the festivities, of course."_

_He did not take her bait. "I arrived at the natural end of the night. You had plenty of chances to dance before then. And plenty of suitors, I imagine."_

_She pursed her lips to keep herself from responding._

" _Or am I wrong? Were there no men willing to stand with you? I'm sure your dear mother was not helpful in encouraging any of them to do so." He walked toward her slowly._

_She moved to her right to walk around his trajectory, but he moved to his left to meet her. She tried again, hurrying to her left to dodge him and make her escape. He met her, again, stepping to his right. He held out his arms to her as he approached her. The gesture confused Meg, giving the Phantom enough time to close the gap between them._

" _May I have this dance, Meg?"_

_The words made her jaw drop. She tried to move around him, but he grabbed her hand and spun her to face him. His other hand gripped her petite waist. The blonde beauty left her free arm at her side as the Opera Ghost himself began to lead her around the room. There was no music, but he moved to an internal metronome. Her feet were forced to either follow to trip over themselves._

_He spun her faster, and she grabbed onto his shoulder to brace herself and her momentum. He smiled at her and continued their dance._

" _Masquerade… seething shadows breathing lies… masquerade… run and hide, but a face will still pursue you…"_

_Her eyes widened at the words he sang. They sounded like a threat._

_She pushed herself away from his hold and he let her. He crossed his arms and watched as she walked toward the door. She bent down to pick up her shoes, comforted by the fact that the Phantom was still in the center of the room._

_Brave enough to stop at the doorway, she paused in her retreat._

" _Why can't you find someone else? Why are you obsessed with Christine?" She turned to look him in the eyes and watched as fury seeped through his expression._

" _Because no one else compares to her!"_

_His arms unfolded and rested at his sides._

" _You are welcome for the dance, Meg." The haughtiness in his voice eclipsed any hint of sincerity. He threw down a small object that shattered upon impact and encased him within a thick cloud of white smoke._

_The smoke dissipated into the air and the Phantom was, as expected, gone._

_When Meg inspected the floor underneath where she had last seen him, there were no signs of a trapdoor that had enabled his exit._

_She shuddered and ran back to her room._


	18. Final Night

Meg looked up from her meal of dried meats and fruit. She and Erik had eaten through all of the fresh food that he had arranged to be stowed, and now what was left was everything that would not be rotten at the end of a two-week voyage.

Erik sat on the bed, opposite the chair she occupied. As usual, he was lost in his thoughts. His eyes were closed and one hand acted as if it was conducting a silent orchestra. He had already finished his meal, and he was obviously fantasizing about Phantasma.

His hand paused in the air and his eyes opened. He was dismayed about something. He noticed that Meg watched him, and he let his hand drop to rest on the other in his lap.

"Do you have something to ask of me?"

"Yes," Meg slowly let out. "Do you remember the night of the masquerade ball?"

His eyebrow, the only one that was visible, cocked in curiosity. "Vividly. Why?"

"I was wondering," she elucidated. "The trapdoor and secret passage beneath the landing of the grand staircase…"

He smiled in amusement, knowing where the conversation headed.

"Did you construct that for the party? Just to intimidate the Vicomte and make a dashing exit?" She worried her lip and looked at him innocently.

"You thought it was dashing?"

"It was certainly a memorable escape."

"What brought on this line of questioning?" Although still amused, he also had an air of reservation.

Meg's eyes looked up to the ceiling, as if she were trying to recall something.

"I have no idea; I was just wondering." She frowned and looked back at Erik. Her face flushed. "I went back to the staircase that night, after… you know."

He nodded, encouraging her to continue.

"I could barely see the separation in the carpet. It was masterfully done. But, did you do all that work for one night?"

"I wish I could take all credit for it, but I only added the rotating mirrors that were in the space under the stairwell."

"The rotating mirrors?" Meg's face was all confusion.

"Yes. I knew, making my exit, I would most likely be followed. Most likely by Christine's chivalrous lover…" His eyes were laced with hate, at the mention of the two of them. "The mirrors served to confuse anyone who dared to follow me."

"And the rest of it?"

"The rest of it," he explained, "was constructed years ago, before Monsier Lefevre's time, to be used as a lift system for a previous owner to make a ridiculously outrageous entrance into the lobby of his theater."

Meg finished her food pensively, trying to focus on what had prompted her to ask such an inane question.

Erik tried to return to his previous musings, but he could not think of how to conclude the song that was circling his head. He abandoned the task and lay down on the bed. His head hurt, but he could not admit any weakness to Meg.

"Erik?"

He shut his eyes and did his best to not sound agitated by her voice.

"Yes, Meg?

"What will I wear? Do I have to stay in this," she motioned down to her attire, "until we have the chance to visit a shop?"

"No," he answered, his head shaking, "we will discard our clothing and wear new garments that I purchased prior to our embarking."

She looked surprised. Sweeping her eyes around the cabin, she was puzzled as to where the hidden wardrobe could be.

"They are in the crates below the food. And there is no reason to open them, at the moment, so leave them be," he chided.

The day passed uneventfully. Meg rehearsed her American lyrics, wrote notes to identify dance movements she wished to try with the music and pedestal, and read a little more of _Madame Bovary._

The female protagonist was fully infatuated with Léon, but wished to reinvent herself as virtuous…until the seductive Rudolphe was introduced. The novel was a difficult read, and she placed it down, again, to take a break from the characters whose lives she could not connect with.

Outside the room, she heard footsteps approaching and shushed murmurings. Her head darted to Erik, who was already next to her side. He kneeled alongside her and placed his left hand on her shoulder and used his right to hold a finger to his lips in warning. She narrowed her eyes, insulted by his lack of trust.

 _I suppose he has a right to be worried, but I would never allow my chance of escape to bring harm to another,_ she thought.

The voices became clear, now that they were right outside the cabin.

"Mmmm…I've missed this musty room, isn't that funny?" The woman's voice was thick with lust. The sound of lips on flesh peppered the background of her words. "Why did you take so long to come back to me, Henri?"

Meg looked pointedly at Erik, who relaxed his hold on her shoulder and brought the hand at his lips to rest on the table in front of her. They shared a smile.

"I had my duties to attend to," replied the sailor. "I told you as much the last time we were down here."

The stowaways could hear the rustling of fabric and groping hands, even through the walls that hid them from view.

"Henri," the woman spoke. She sounded hesitant. "I was speaking to one of the passengers – a girl named Josette?"

"What about her?" The sailor's tone was definitely guarded. The rustling and kissing sounds had stopped, it seemed.

"She, well, she mentioned that she had a beau on this ship, a sailor named... Henri."

Henri's sigh was audible enough to reach the inside of the hidden compartment.

"Yes, Josette. She's a sweet little thing, and her daddy's the governor of New York. I guess he sent her off to Paris to a finishing school, and she's on her way back home. I have not the slightest interest in her. But I can't exactly be offending the governor's daughter, can I? I flirt with her, but that's all. She doesn't hold my heart…as you do, Giselle."

"Is it true that we arrive tomorrow?"

Giselle's imparting of the crucial information did not escape Erik nor Meg. The blonde ballerina's eyes widened, and the Phantom's jaw clenched.

"Tomorrow afternoon, yes." The sounds of kissing and clothing being removed were once again prominent.

"Oh!" Giselle let out a particularly loud cry of arousal.

Meg blushed and looked away from Erik. Her gaze fell to the bed, and she quickly darted her eyes toward the door.

The sounds of their love-making were unmistakable. The lady called out her lover's name in repetition. The sailor seemed focused on taking his pleasure. His breathless pants heightened with his climax, then abated. His companion let out a sigh as if she, too, was miraculously satisfied.

"When will you be coming back to New York?" Giselle spoke to Henri, while the pair obviously righted their vestments.

"I cannot say, but I will write to you, when I know."

"A pity," she sighed, "that you chose a profession that does not let you stay anywhere for long."

"And speaking of not staying long, we must get you back…"

"How long will you be in port? Can you escort me to my home? I would feel much safer having you with me."

"I would love to, _ma chérie_...unfortunately, the lowly position I am in, I am required to take the first night's shift on the ship. I cannot leave. Let us go back, now, and I will tell you of the next time I am in New York..."

The voices began to fade as the couple moved further away.

When they were gone, Erik moved away from Meg to sit upon the bed, once again. Meg grabbed a piece of paper and sketched costume ideas. The Phantom furtively glanced at the rough drawings, but he gave no input or praise.

As the familiar sounds of the crew switching shifts was heard, Meg looked up and saw that Erik had already readied himself for bed. She had been in such deep concentration that she hadn't noticed his movements. His mask was on, of course, but he lay on the outside of the bed with his eyes closed.

She carefully placed the inkpot, quill, and papers away in an orderly manner, so that nothing could accidentally be destroyed. Erik only had Phantasma to obsess over, and she shuddered to think of what he would do if any of his newest works were lost. Standing up, she realized that she would have to crawl over her bunkmate, if she wanted to sleep on the bed. If he was asleep.

"Erik?"

He let out a small grunt in response.

"I need to…can you please move, so that I can lie down, too?

Another short grunt that did not give her any clarity.

She frowned and nimbly lifted one leg to place her foot on the other side of him. Using the foothold, she attempted to stand and use the propulsion to cross over him. But when she did so, his hands grabbed behind her knees. The action was not hurtful, but it caused her knees to buckle and herself to straddle his waist.

His eyes were open, when she looked at him, and he smirked at the blonde. She shook her head and gave a slight smile back, uncertain of what he was aiming to do.

"Lie down on top of me," he commanded.

She sat up a little straighter, unsure of what he meant. His hands moved up her thighs. They followed her trim waistline, then cupped underneath her arms and behind her shoulders. He pulled her down to him slowly, and she complied; she turned her head so that one cheek rested on his chest. He pet her long locks in a slow rhythm. It comforted her, and she fell asleep.

_Christine and the Phantom scaled the twin spiraling staircases, as Meg and the rest of the ensemble watched from offstage. As they ascended, they sang their tawdry duet. Christine looked much less virginal in this production, as her sleeves continuously fell off her shoulders._

_Before they reached the top platform, Meg watched a portion of the male dancers run onstage to meet up with the ladies that had already been dancing to Christine's solo. Meg, herself, was not in this number, as she needed the time to change from the previous number into the costume she currently wore._

_Christine and the Phantom, playing Piangi's role, met in the center of the platform, high above the stage. Reminded of the missing man, Meg wondered at what had caused Piangi's absence. He was never one to forsake his time in the limelight, even in a poorly-received production such as this. She bit her lip in worry over the leading man._

_He twirled the songstress in his embrace, then began to sing a plaintive tune to her. Meg didn't recall this particular song being in the libretto the Phantom had given Andre and Firmin. Christine pulled away to turn to him, reaching for his face._

_The crowd let out a universal shriek of horror, but Meg couldn't see much from her vantage point. She saw that the black mask was no longer on his face, nor was the black hair she had previously seen him with, but the Phantom was mostly obscured from view, due to the lighting._

_He grabbed her and, together, they plunged from the scaffold through the fire pit below. Meg did not worry for their lives at that moment, because she knew there would be a padded and netted landing for them both._

_Before anyone could follow them, however, the chandelier ripped through the ceiling and came crashing toward the orchestra pit. Everyone flew in different directions, trying to find safety out of the enormous light's path._

_Meg ran behind the stage to find her mother. They found each other and locked hands in the chaos. The Vicomte was with them, too, as if he flew from his box seat. He begged her mother to help him save Christine, and Madame Giry agreed with much dismay. When Meg asked to come, she was given a firm no._

_She followed, anyway, unseen._

_Down, down, down the stone steps of a large staircase that seemed to descend into the bowels of hell. She had no idea where it could possibly lead. Her mother gave a final ominous instruction to the young man: "Keep your hand at the level of your eyes." They parted ways, her mother returning to the surface, unable to see her own daughter in the damp darkness._

_Meg and Raoul continued down, until Meg heard the scraping of stone and a shout of surprise ahead of her. When she arrived to where he was last seen, the torch he had carried was next to a large opening on the stair. A trap of some sort, with a steep drop down into water. She could not see where he had gone, but she heard splashing below. Not wanting to plunge into the unknown, she leaped over the opening, took the sole light source, and continued down._

_At the bottom was a labyrinth of stone paths, bridges, and waterways surrounding a large lake. She was overwhelmed, but determined to find where the Phantom had taken her friend. Scouring the underground maze, she found dead ends, catacombs, and plenty of vermin. Throughout the cavernous area, she heard the voices of Christine, Raoul, and the Phantom occasionally echoing, further confusing her sense of direction. There was also the steady rising of a mob of voices who, like her, sought to find the Phantom in his hidden home._

_The voices behind her swelled, and there was no sound from the three people who were the centerpiece of this tragedy. Just when she thought to abandon her solitary quest to join her mother at the surface, she heard the distinct sounds of glass breaking. It was coming from across a waterway._

_She forded the mercifully shallow canal…and found an absolutely opulent lair. This was where the Opera Ghost lived?_

_Candles were everywhere, on the ground, on short chambersticks, atop tall floor candelabra. The entire place was illuminated. The torch she held was now unnecessary, and it had already begun to flicker out. She dropped it into the water and made her way further into the Phantom's domain._

_Emerging from the waterway, she took inventory of everything around her. Where was Christine?_

_She was focused on scanning the various levels of where she was, not on where she stepped, when she heard something crack underfoot. Glass shards. Looking along her path, she saw that they culminated near rich red curtains. The curtains covered huge mirrors that were now, obviously, shattered. Before investigating further, something else drew away her attention._

_A mask, a white one, lay upon a box near the place she stood. She had seen the Phantom in two masks: the half-skull for his Mask of the Red Death masquerade costume and the simple black half-mask he had worn as Passarino on this very night. This mask covered half the face, as well, but vertically. It was much less disturbing._

_The voices of the mob were getting closer, their cries of outrage were distinct and thunderous._

_She stood, the mask still in her hand, and turned back to her original investigation._

_One broken mirror was mostly concealed by one of the large curtains. She tentatively stepped toward it. As she neared, the Phantom lifted it from behind. She expected she would see his true form, but he had both the white mask and the wig in place. And, looking down at her hands, she was amazed to find that they were empty._

_He held out a hand to her, beckoning._

" _It's you, now, Meg."_

_She hesitated out of his reach, but she took a step toward him as if drawn by a magnetic force._

" _Come with me," he pleaded, his eyes full of promises and mysteries. "Come with me…angel."_

_Her hand alit upon his and he gently pulled her into darkness._


	19. Passing Time

Meg awoke on a hard, clothed body. She lay tucked under the Phantom's arm, along the length of his form. The arm under her was sore, presumably from having lain upon it for too long. Her other hand was splayed across Erik's chest, rising and falling in sync with his deep breaths.

The candle was out, the room was dark, and she knew his mask would be placed on the table next to the bed.

_Dare I…_

She delicately moved her free hand toward the Phantom's face.

Although she couldn't see anything, her fingers lightly brushed what she assumed was the jaw of the afflicted side of his face. His right side. She lifted her fingers and then used her entire hand to cup the area. The lower part of her palm and her left thumb felt his smooth, unmarred skin, from the bottom of his cheek to his jaw. Her fingertips touched a different texture, wrinkled, uneven, and hard. Similar to _papier-mâché_ that had been left to dry without being smoothed over a surface.

 _Like yellow parchment…_ It felt rougher than parchment.

In the dark, a hand flew up and grabbed onto her own. Erik pulled Meg's hand away and squeezed it painfully. Meg let out a whimper.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"

"You did that deliberately," he hissed, his tone laced with venom.

"I-" Meg whimpered again as he crushed her hand within his. "You're right, I did! I'm sorry! I was only c-c-curious as to what could be so damnable about your f-face that you would hide it so vigilantly!"

Erik threw her hand away from him and sat up in the bed. Meg rolled over on her back, willing one sore hand to alleviate the pain of the other. She felt him throw the weight of his lower body over the side of their bed, to put his mask back into place and light the taper that he also kept nearby.

The room was bathed in a warm glow, and Erik still sat on the edge of the bed, his back to Meg. She could tell, from his breathing, that the Phantom was trying to calm his rage. His hands were on his knees, gripping them tightly. As he had done with her hand.

Meg sat up, flexing her fingers. She felt so lost. So alone. The voyage was soon to be over, and a new transition would begin. She could not bear being a prisoner. In the two weeks they had spent in these close quarters, they had developed a comfortable understanding. If she had to regain his trust, he might tighten her leash to an even more unreasonable degree.

 _Maybe…_ she wondered.

She sat on her knees, facing his back. Her hands rested on his shoulders, and they tensed at the contact. She swallowed the lump in her throat and gently skimmed her fingers down the length of his arms, until her chest hit the expanse of his back.

Erik didn't speak; he didn't reciprocate the intimacy, either, but Meg felt that his receiving her affection without complaint was a good omen.

Meg's lips lightly touched his neck, kissing and brushing against the underside of his mask down to his neck. Her hands raked back up his arms and hugged his chest.

"I'm sorry," she whispered against his skin.

His body relaxed, slightly, allowing her to continue. But he still did not touch her.

She let her hands wander to his abdomen, admiring his rather strapping body. He used one of his hands to still her own on his midsection, before they could meander anywhere else. Meg followed his lead, pausing until she could be cued into what he wanted.

He rose from the bed. Meg's hands fell down to her lap and she frowned. She was oddly disappointed. And she felt something else. Something that she couldn't name. Or maybe her mind was blocking the name from her conscious self.

Erik bent down to remove the food crate from its location. Uncovered, the two slender boxes were now much more obvious. He set them on the table and rifled through what was left of the food. He settled on some dried apricots and coppiette. He handed Meg her portion, and they ate in silence.

Meg simply watched Erik as he darted about the cabin, packing up the papers and sheet music they had worked on together, nestling the forged documents that held the new identities that they would present to all in this new world. Discarded items were thrown in the corner. There was no need to leave their little space tidy.

He went to his cape, thrown over the noose that still hung from the nail in the wall, and he used a small knife from under the table to cut it open. Meg's eyes shot up in surprise. Within the lining were what looked to be thousands of franc notes. Erik removed them all, stacked them neatly on the table, and counted them to make sure that he would leave none behind. The currency also went into his satchel.

"You brought your fortune with you on the ship?" For the first time since the previous night, Erik looked straight at Meg.

"Not all of it, of course, only what I could feasibly carry and conceal. Enough to secure us, until I can visit one of the reserves in New York."

He threw the destroyed cape into the corner and continued organizing their eventual exit. Meg stared at it for a long while, remembering how he had used the garment to cover her on several occasions. The first time he had done so, it was at the dock in La Havre; it was meant to look affectionate, but it was a method of control and deception. It hid the noose that had been around her neck. The last time he had covered her, it was a gentlemanly gesture, to give her additional warmth and comfort.

She shook her head in disbelief about all that had happened since he had abducted her from Paris.

"I would like for us both to bathe before putting on our new vestments, if you don't mind."

Meg snapped out of her thoughts and watched as the Phantom opened one of the garment boxes. From it, he pulled out a stunning lapis blue dress with black lace and a flounced skirt. She was smiling before she could register the sensation, her eyes delighting in all of the various ruffles and adornments. Never before had she worn anything so beautiful. It looked like it belonged in La Carlotta's wardrobe.

Thinking of the opera diva made her remember that this particular dress, in fact, was selected for Christine. Her smile faltered and her eyes lost their luster.

The box and the muslin pieces that had been used to carefully package the dress were discarded, too.

Just then, everything outside their hidden room escalated in a crescendo of noise and frenzied movement.

"It would seem we have arrived," the Phantom murmured.

He grabbed the basin and placed it under the tap, filling it with the cold bathing water. Once that was done, he carefully moved it to the table and retrieved a rag from the basket below.

"Your bath, Miss Giry?"

Meg moved from her spot on the bed and stood, waiting.

Erik stared at her, then he reached for her pants. She brushed away his hand and stepped further away, blushing. "What are you doing?" she queried.

"Obviously, I am assisting you, so that you may bathe and prepare yourself to dress, and I will do the same for myself, once you are done."

He sounded bored, as if divesting her would be a chore, more so than a sexual activity.

"Aren't you going outside to wait?" she squeaked out.

Erik rolled his eyes in frustration. "I can't go out at this time, there are too many people milling about. Besides," and now his tone turned silky, "I have seen all of you. There is no point in being modest, now."

"Your seeing me naked does not mean that you are at liberty to do so whenever you choose," she hissed back.

He came up to her again, but her calves were already against the bed. She had nowhere to go, but she stood her ground. His eyes stared menacingly into hers, but something changed. He adopted a cooler expression and turned around, walking to the opposite side of the room and facing the wall.

"You have five minutes," he said.

She jumped at the small reprieve and quickly discarded her clothing. Every so often, she glanced at him, while furiously washing her skin with the rag, water, and what was left of the vial of scented oil. To his credit, he never stole a glance, seemingly lost in some musical composition in his mind. She finished and grabbed the undergarments from where he had draped them. She left the corset undone, of course, but it still covered her. Lastly, she wet her fingers and dragged them through her hair.

Erik turned around and walked behind her, lacing the corset up more efficiently than Meg expected. She continued to work on her hair, detangling it and attempting to pin the curls up in a passable fashion with hairpins that he handed her from the package. When she had done all she could with it, she picked up the dress. It was heavy. She stared at it, puzzled.

His hands pulled it away from her, and he motioned for her to place it over her head. She complied, and the dress formed to her curvaceous body. She looked down at amazement. Aside from her costume for the masquerade ball, she had never felt so glamorous. After she was fully dressed, stockings and new dress boots included, she looked around the room.

The Phantom had packed and was ready to embark. She had nothing to pack. Nothing was hers. Not even the clothing that she had worn on this ship. It was a costume from _Don Juan Triumphant_ , and it also did not technically belong to her. She was surprised that she hadn't thought more about that, before now. She truly was starting over.

Meg sat upon the bed, staring at the floor. Who would Adelina Moreau be? What possessions would she own? Would she be resigned to completely abandoning her prior life?

The Opera Populaire was a huge building; could it even be completely destroyed? _All of my things, my clothing, my precious photographs… everything_ , she lamented. _Is it all gone? Am I only a memory, now?_

She pictured her mother gathering her belongings, somehow spared by the fiery destruction. Her mother would hold on to everything, she was sure. Had she lost her mother, she would have held onto every memento.

Her eyes misted over, realizing that she, in fact, had nothing of her mother's. Not one physical item to have external proof of the woman whom she loved so deeply.

Meg hadn't noticed, being so entrenched in the recesses of her mind, that Erik had removed his clothing and was bathing in the area she had just vacated. His back was to her, and she looked up to see his naked form… before quickly looking away in embarrassment.

Apparently, before he had disrobed, he had lain out his own new attire. Most of it was black and it was draped over the backs of the two chairs. When his hand appeared into her view, grabbing one of the garments, her eyes traitorously looked toward his face. He did not seem the least bit fazed by her looking at him in all his glory. Instead, he was focused on his task.

She remembered that he had used the same rag she had washed herself with; he probably smelled of the same perfume that was in the scented oil. Pursing her lips, she successfully stifled the laugh in her throat.

When he had finished, she took inventory of his new look. Black trousers, a white dress shirt, black vest, black cravat, and a dark slate grey coat that almost reached his knees. The vest had brightly shined silver buttons, and he placed the silver skull cufflinks in the cuffs of his new sleeves. Apart from his mask, wig, and the cufflinks, it was quite the new appearance.

 _Danton Yelle_ , she remembered. She repeated the pseudonym in her mind.

"What happens if I accidently call you Erik?" she asked on impulse.

He looked at her, fastening the final cufflink into place. "I would rather you didn't, especially in front of others, but if it does happen, most will assume it to be my middle name, used casually."

She nodded, thoughtfully. "Before we leave this ship, and I have to remember to call you Danton or Monsieur Yelle…"

" _Mister_ ," he lightly chided.

" _Mister_ Yelle, then," she corrected, "what is your surname? Your real one?"

His jaw ticked and his head tilted up. "I never had one. I am Erik," he simply stated. "And, now, there is no Phantom of the Opera. I am Mister Danton Yelle, and I will be the owner and operator of Phantasma."

Meg nodded, again. She surveyed the room, then looked back to Erik…Danton.

"May I still call you Erik in private? Can I still be Meg when we're alone?"

His eyes softened a bit, and he gave her a faint smile. "Yes," he whispered.

She smiled back. Then she smoothed out her skirt. "When do we embark?"

"Not for hours, I'm sorry to say." He searched the full satchel of its contents.

"And what do we do to occupy our time? You put everything away," she sighed.

He pulled from the bag the largest novel in his collection. The one Meg had not, yet, ventured to read. Her brows arched in surprise.

"I take it that finishing _Madame Bovary_ is not appealing to you, at the moment, anyway." He saw her disdainful expression and chuckled softly. "I believe I said that _Les Misérables_ is a book about redemption. After _Le Comte de Monte-Cristo_ , this is my favorite of my novels. I think you will enjoy it, too, if you let me read it to you."

Erik sat next to her and flipped rapidly through its beginning chapters, skipping the first fifty or so pages to find what he was searching for.

"What kind of novel is this, that you must know where to start reading?"

He smiled more broadly. "It is…complicated. Hugo wrote _Notre-Dame de Paris_ , and I saw you skimming through portions of the book, waiting until you saw plot advancement to read more assiduously." He stopped on a particular chapter, content that he had found his starting point. "This novel is similar, and Hugo often digresses to go off on wild tangents."

He looked down at the words on the page and subtly cleared his throat.

"Early in the month of October, 1815, about an hour before sunset, a man who was travelling on foot…"

The time passed with ease, as Meg became enthralled with the story. Erik's narrative voice was soothing and expressive. She eventually lay back on the bed, sometimes closing her eyes while trying to envision the places or people being described. Erik lay beside her, occasionally pausing to listen for nearing footsteps or the overall amount of activity outside. He, too, would pause while flitting through the pages to omit certain sections of the long work.

"'And by the way, Monsieur Marius, I believe that I was a little bit in love with you.' She tried to smile once more and expired."

Erik looked over and saw the tears in Meg's eyes.

"And what do you think of the story, thus far?" He rose from the bed and placed the novel back in the satchel.

"I'm thoroughly enjoying it, but oh! Eponine! My heart is hurting at that horrible twist of fate!"

"We will revisit the characters, again, but it is time for us to leave, I think. It has been mostly silent for hours, now. I'll be leading you, making sure that it is, indeed, the ideal time for us to be disembarking." His eyes darted to the infamous Punjab lasso that still hung upon the wall. He looked back at Meg, who was sitting up in bed. "I had planned to leave the rope behind," he said guardedly. "Would it be wise for me to bring it, or can I trust you to not alert anyone?"

"I won't alert anyone," Meg stiffly reassured him.

"Fine, then," he agreed. "Know that I _can_ silence trouble without it."

His threat provoked her in an odd way. "Yes, I know that!" she snapped.

"Now, before we leave our comfy quarters, one more thing."

Erik sat next to her and pressed her shoulders to make her lie upon the bed. She squealed in surprise.

"What-" Meg started.

But Erik was already kissing her neck. His hands groped her clothed body, while pressing himself into her.

"Erik! What are you doing?"

He paused and arched away from her.

"Do you recall our little meeting on the dock? What my agent suggested?"

Meg thought back to that moment. Much of the memory was veiled beneath layers of trauma that she felt at the time. She had been more in shock of her abduction than she had been focused on what was being said between her captor and the stranger.

"No?"

"We should be leaving the ship late as the result of our…activities." He smiled sinfully. "I am helping you to be properly flustered."

He continued, and Meg bit back a moan.

"I think I can handle a bit of acting," she replied, noticing how breathy her voice sounded.

She felt Erik smile against the sensitive skin under her ear.

"There'll be no need for acting, once I'm finished," his hot breath warmed her skin, and she shuddered with pleasure.

A hand rested on one of her ankles and then steadily, firmly, worked its way up her leg.

"Oh!" she cried out, "but my dress…"

"Your dress will be wrinkled but intact, a perfect accompaniment to my own state, and no one will doubt our story."

His hand found her, then, and Meg's own palm flew to muffle a loud moan of unmistakable desire.


	20. Suspicious Characters

Erik opened the door and covertly took in his immediate surroundings. There was no one in sight, so he led Meg out of the room and through the ship. One of his gloved hands steadied the satchel he carried, the other held one of Meg's dainty hands to guide her along in the shadows. Every so often, he found himself needing to turn around, and each time doing so his hand squeezed hers in frustration.

Approaching the top of the ship, they saw a male figure leaning against the wall, smoking. His back was to them, as he looked through the doorway. The sailor watched the exit, clearly hiding his activity. Erik pulled Meg to him, holding her by her waist. Their eyes met, and she nodded nervously to assure him of her compliance.

Before they were within thirty paces of the worker, he snuffed the cigarette and turned toward them.

"Hey! Hold it, who are you?"

Meg realized who it was and wondered if Erik was also aware of the sailor's identity.

"Hello, there, young man," the Phantom's voice was smooth and unconcerned. "Did we miss the disembarking?"

"By hours, _monsieur_ ," the man lifted a hand to motion the couple to stop where they were. Erik complied and Meg followed suit. The mariner stared unabashedly at the masked man, straining to see what possibly warranted its use.

"Well, I am embarrassed to admit that my companion and I were…" Erik looked down at Meg and gave her a salacious grin. She blushed and looked down. "We were…exploring this fine vessel." He looked back at the sailor, giving him a knowing look to seal his meaning.

The stranger leered at Meg with appreciation, taking in both of their disheveled states, but held his ground.

"Although I understand your desire to 'explore,' you have missed the official disembarking, and I must ask you to come with me to find a member of the port authority to validate your entry."

He gestured to the exit, commanding them to go ahead. Meg looked up at the Phantom's eyes and saw fury. And, most likely, a plan being hatched. He led her to the doorway, and she glanced back at the young man.

"Um…Danton?" Meg placed a hand over the arm that tightened around her waist. "Does this boy not look to be the exact image of who Josette described? What was his name?"

Erik smirked down at her, continuing to walk ahead of the sailor. He looked almost proud.

"Why, I believe it was Henri. Does that sound correct? You spoke with her more than I did, my sweet."

"Ah, yes, _Henri_." The Phantom's gripped loosened, and Meg sighed in relief. "I am quite eager to see her, again, such a charming girl. I do look forward to the dinner party."

"Yes, you should find it quite enjoyable, but I'm afraid I will be speaking of business affairs with her father."

Meg glanced up and placed a single finger to the side of her face.

"The strange thing is, Giselle was there, too, as Josette described the gallant Henri. She was unnaturally upset by the whole conversation," Meg spun a pretty tale, but Erik feigned indifference to the story. "When the governor's daughter retired to her room, Giselle told me that she, too, was very much in love with a sailor named Henri. What an odd coincidence!"

"Did no one tell Josette? It sounds to me like this 'Henri' was a cad who played the heartstrings of both ladies."

"I didn't see Josette again, what with our being…" Meg faltered.

"With our exploration?" She looked up at Erik; he smiled fondly at her.

"Um, yes." Meg giggled and looked back at the young sailor. His face had paled and he had a hard, thoughtful expression. "I suppose I'll have to relay the information at the dinner party tomorrow night."

They arrived to the deck, and there were many more seamen working in the light of lanterns strewn about the topside of the ship. A few of them looked curiously at the couple, but they went back to their duties when Henri waved them off. He narrowed his eyes and leaned more closely into their space.

"What kind of trouble are you trying to stir, _monsieur et mademoiselle_?" his voice was barely above a whisper.

Erik smirked and kept the same bored tone. "How long will you stay in port, _marin_? I imagine that you will be here at least a week, waiting for new passengers and cargo to arrive. Perhaps you will stay longer, if the governor suspects that you deflowered his precious daughter."

The guilty man stood stiffly away from them.

"I shall not detain you, then," he said brusquely. "And I hope that you will see this favor as payment for you to not interfere in _my_ business…as I am not interfering in _yours_."

Henri led them to the service gangplank. He watched the rather mismatched couple descend to the pier. They never looked back, and soon they were out of his sight. He hoped to never see either of them again. He clenched his jaw and sent up a silent, selfish prayer: may his sins never be revealed to his detriment.

Meg shivered underneath the long sleeves of her dress. It was very cold, not freezing, there was no ice or snow on the ground; but every breath she took created a visible haze before her eyes.

Sensing her discomfort, the Phantom stopped and removed his long charcoal coat and placed it around her shoulders. He picked up the satchel from where he had set it and resumed his pace.

"Thank you, Erik," Meg whispered. She was warmer, but still chilled and uncomfortable. When she looked to the man beside her, he didn't seem the least bit inconvenienced by the cold. He also didn't respond to her, focusing on their path.

He grabbed her shoulders, suddenly, at the end of the wharf, and walked her toward the city streets. A figure appeared within the fog ahead of them, someone who was tall and imposing…and walking directly for them. As the unknown individual moved closer, Meg assumed it was some sort of officer.

The _gendarme_ was Erik's height, perhaps slightly taller, with a bushy moustache in a dark shade. He wore a midnight blue uniform with shiny brass buttons and a flat cap. Meg saw no badge, but she guessed it was probably somewhere under the officer's overcoat.

He motioned for them to stop and he spoke in English to Erik. Erik answered back, calmly, with ease. Meg could understand a handful of words, between the two of them, including the word "hotel." Erik was pleased with the outcome of the brief conversation, and the official escorted them to a hansom cab that was on the mostly-deserted street. Erik shook the man's hand, and led Meg to the cab's entrance.

The driver shook himself awake and hopped down from his perch. Erik spoke in English to him, too, which made Meg frown. Once the duo were safely inside, the working man removed the blanket from his horse and sat in the seat in the back. The carriage took off and Meg turned to the Phantom.

"What was all that? Was that a _gendarme_? What did you tell him?"

Erik looked a bit surprised, but he answered nonetheless. "Yes, he was a 'police officer.' That is the English term. He wanted to know why we were out without proper attire. I told him that I had taken you to the pier to enjoy the sunset, but that we had stayed out too long and become lost in the fog. He asked where we were staying, and I said that we had only just arrived in port today and our things were supposed to be waiting for us at our hotel."

 _When did he come up with all of that?_ She wondered.

"After my explanation, the policeman asked where we were staying and I told him. He then offered to escort us to a cab and told us to be wary of being out so late."

"Wary of what?"

Erik chuckled. "Suspicious characters."

Meg smiled, too, at the irony. She let out a yawn and leaned into her traveling companion. Erik's body stiffened, but he did not move either himself or her. As the motion of the carriage on cobblestone and Erik's warm body started to lull her to sleep, the vehicle abruptly stopped and jerked forward. Erik used the arm on the opposite side of where Meg sat to secure her in place, and she heard a growl escape his chest.

The door opened and Erik exited first, to assist Meg. He handed some of the francs to the cabbie who seemed to object to the currency, for some odd reason. Erik handed him more money and said something else in English; after that, the driver shrugged his shoulders, shoved the bills in his coat pocket, and rode away.

Too sleepy to care about the exchange, Meg followed the Phantom into the enormous building.

"Where are we?" she asked, her sleepiness ebbing in awe of the grandeur around her.

"Astor House."

She stared appreciatively at the opulent furnishings and beautiful artwork, while Erik led her to the desk at the end of the large foyer. Speaking to the manager, Erik handed a large stack of his money across the desk, but the gentleman pushed it back, shaking his head and explaining his reasoning in English.

 _What on earth is wrong with Erik's money? Is it counterfeit?_ Meg watched Erik; he was too occupied with his conversation, as it became more and more heated.

Finally, the manager acquiesced, rather reluctantly. He placed the bills, as if they were diseased, somewhere under the desk and handed Erik a key. His thin lips gave a curt smile and he bowed his head to Meg. Before Meg could give any response to his acknowledgement, Erik whisked her away.

"Unbelievable," he muttered.

"What was it? What happened?" Meg hated feeling so isolated from the events going on right in front of her.

"Apparently, in this country, they just started to print their _own_ paper money," Erik explained.

"Oh," Meg replied. "Do they not take French bills, then?"

"Not anymore, apparently. I argued with the cashier at the desk, telling him that I would exchange the francs for their 'dollars' in the morning. He took some convincing, but I used you to prey upon his desire to be gentlemanly."

"Me?"

"I asked him if he could live with himself for making you sleep on the steps outside, in the cold. He took the francs back with the understanding that I will make good on my promise tomorrow morning."

Meg didn't want to congratulate Erik's manipulative tactics, so she remained silent.

Their room was small, with a single bed, a chair next to a desk, and a chaise. The bath that was attached held a pedestal sink, a toilet, and a tiny bathtub that could barely fit one person.

"This is only for tonight," he assured her, sounding defensive. "I have enough, in francs, to upgrade our accommodations, as soon as I can exchange the currency. And, soon enough, I will transfer my accounts to this city."

"I'm just pleased to see a toilet, after two weeks without," Meg sighed.

Erik placed the satchel on the desk. Meg excused herself and used the restroom. When she returned, he had already removed most of his unnecessary clothing items and accessories.

"May I help you with your dress?" His politeness was a bit awkward, a bit forced.

"Yes, thank you."

Her dress was hung in a wardrobe that barely enclosed it, but at least it wouldn't wrinkle further. Once she was down to her undergarments, she stiffly moved toward the bed. Erik turned from her and lay down on the chaise. She felt an unwelcome urge to call out to him to share the bed with her, but she squelched that impulse before any word could pass her lips.

"Erik?"

"Hmm?"

"What will-" she started to ask whether Erik would leave her alone or if she would accompany him in the city. Something held that thought hostage. "Never mind, it's nothing. Good night."

The Phantom was not interested in questioning her on her secrecy. "Good night."

Meg stayed up for hours, or so it felt. She remained in bed, contemplating. This was her first real opportunity. She was only about twenty steps to the door, as was he. Without a dress or heels to slow her down, she could easily catch him unawares and bolt toward her freedom. Once outside, there would be too many people for Erik to overcome.

After what felt like an eternity, she heard the familiar heavy breathing from across the room. She gingerly removed her covers, holding her breath to listen for any change from the chaise. He had left his mask on, as the room was dimly lit. She focused on it, being that it was more illuminated than any other part of him. Her bare feet touched the carpet and she crept toward the door, only taking her eyes off of her captor when she saw the exit in the corner of her sight.

The ornate handle was beautiful, and it looked heavy. She had not examined it, upon their entry; she had been too overwhelmed to think of an escape. The deadbolt was in place, and she found it a little unsettling that she could not remember Erik locking it behind them. One turn of the mechanism and she could unlatch it successfully. One click, possibly two including the handle, and maybe a creak as the door gave way… she couldn't recall if it made a noise the first time.

She stared….and stared…and stared. Time passed; she had no idea how long it had been since they had spoken their "good nights" to each other. Would Erik reach her before she could step out of her prison? If she made it out and was safely tucked away or, God-willing, given passage back to France, would her escape matter if Erik was not caught? If he was able to disappear into the night, as he had practiced to perfection in Paris, would he leave her alone to live out their lives forever separated?

Meg imagined that exact scenario. She ran out into the hall, possibly shouting for help, if the door was noisy enough to wake Erik. He, most likely, would not pursue her in such a public arena. Unless he had some excuse prepared to explain away her behavior. She frowned at that new idea.

If, however, she found sanctuary with some official or kind stranger… if she made it back to France… if she found her mother…

How long would it last?

Would he continue to focus on his new life in America?

Or would he exact revenge for the betrayal? Judging from his initial comments about how he had abducted Meg to break her mother's heart, she knew that his revenge would not be sated if they were reunited.

 _But he let Christine go…_ she reasoned with herself. _I wonder why. What changed his mind? Why did he show mercy to_ her _?_

Come to think of it, she didn't actually know what had happened to Christine. She vaguely remembered hearing her and her lover's lilting voices echoing, before the Phantom destroyed the large mirrors in his domain. Had he let them _both_ go? Where was his raging sense of injustice, then?

Her mind knew, before the rest of her body, that she would not try to escape that night. As she gazed through the keyhole into the well-lit hall that lay beyond, her eyes could no longer stay open.

Filled with regret, confusion, and resignation, she made her way back to her bed. She covered herself and fell asleep before her body had a chance to warm the bedding.


	21. New Accommodations

Meg awoke with a start, as if jolted from a dream. But she could not recall if she actually dreamt. The room was brilliantly lit, with sunlight pouring in through two small windows at the end of where she slept. She squinted and focused on her surroundings. Erik sat at the small desk, writing, with his back to her. A sight she had become accustomed to. A silver tray with toast, soft-boiled eggs, and orange juice sat atop her nightstand.

She was still in her undergarments, so she lifted the covers to her neck and used one arm to reach for a piece of the sliced bread. Erik heard the rustling from the bed and turned to face her. He was fully dressed in the same ensemble he had worn off the ship the night before.

"Good morning," he stated, cocking his one visible eyebrow at Meg's attempt at modesty. "For you, anyway. For the rest of New York, it is the afternoon."

"Afternoon?!" Her voice was still thick with sleep, and it cracked unflatteringly.

"Yes. It seems you needed more sleep to recover from last night's… _activities_." He stared right at her, as she bit into the toast.

 _Does he know?_ _How could he?_

She pushed the concern from her mind, feigning indifference to his cryptic comment.

"Where are we going today? The bank?"

"I was there when they opened, this morning. The currency is exchanged and our account with this hotel is properly mended. I picked up a service tray on the way back to this room, so that you could eat before we change rooms."

The toast was, indeed, room temperature. Meg finished the cooled breakfast, anyway, contemplating all the new information Erik had just relayed.

She was dismayed that he had been able to leave and return to the room without disturbing her. It brought her back to the indecision she felt, as she stared at the door for most of the night. She inwardly cursed that she had doubted herself.

Erik stood and retrieved the sole dress from the wardrobe. Meg remained in bed, watching him, having finished her meal. He rolled his eyes at her discomfort and laid the dress over the covers. He then moved back to the desk.

"Get up, get dressed, and let's see our new accommodations."

Meg hurried to put the dress on; she heard Erik rustling papers and assumed he was packing up his satchel. Upon getting her head through the neckline, she felt his hands pulling at the fabric to right it on her waist. While she straightened the seams along her arms, he fastened the closures.

They had to pass through the lobby, eliciting curious stares from the strangers they passed. Erik seemed unperturbed by the attention, while Meg, her arm interlocked in his, glanced around in astonishment.

 _It's no wonder that he kept himself so hidden within the Opera Populaire_ , she thought. _How does he expect to build a life in a new city that is no more welcoming than the last?_

After climbing flights of stairs, they arrived at the entrance of their third story room. Erik dropped the arm that held Meg's hand and removed the key from his coat pocket.

The sitting room they walked into was larger than the entirety of the hotel room that they had just moved from. On either side of the common area were doors leading to private suites. Meg could only see a little way into each bedroom, but her heart did a flip in her chest to see that Erik had kept his promise to give her a separate room.

 _Hopefully,_ she cautioned herself, _I have a room to myself._

Erik had stopped, once they were both inside, and turned to lock the door behind them. Meg was ready to pay attention to every detail, every noise and mechanism, but was dismayed to see him use the single key to lock them inside. This room's main door did not have a deadbolt, apparently. Meg frowned, but remembered the inner turmoil she had felt at the uncertainty of whether or not her captor would let her fully escape his clutches.

A knock at the door made her jump, and Erik still held his satchel at his side. He looked surprised, as well, but he called out something in English and placed the bag on a rather luxuriously padded chair. Meg froze in place and watched him compose himself and unlock the door.

A tall, spindly man with a bushy mustache and little hair upon his head stood politely at the door, awaiting permission to enter. Behind him, a graying brunette woman smirked with mild surprise at the Phantom's intimidating appearance.

The man spoke to Erik, all in English. Erik relaxed almost immediately and allowed them both entry. The woman crossed toward Meg, looking her up and down. She pulled out a measuring tape and Meg finally understood what their purpose was.

Meg obediently lifted her arms when the older woman motioned for her to do so. Her various measurements were taken, with strange words she assumed to be numbers being called out to the lanky man. He wrote the information in a small notebook, while speaking with Erik.

When the seamstress was satisfied with what she had, she looked at Meg's unmeasurable features. She stared deeply into Meg's eyes, making the young woman blush in awkwardness. She called to her partner, either a tailor or a shop owner, and Erik smiled and nodded his head at whatever was said. Gently, she took a strand of Meg's hair and seemingly memorized the exact shade.

The duo then switched roles, exchanging the notebook and pencil; the man had his own measuring tape that he pulled out of his inner breast pocket. Erik stood tall and allowed for all of his own dimensions to be recorded. Every so often, the man would ask a question and Erik would respond without hesitation.

Meg could not bring herself to do anything but watch and listen; she had not yet moved from her spot.

Everything concluded rather quickly, with Erik shaking the balding man's hand and Meg being given a smile and nod from both workers. They left with their notebook, Erik locked the door behind them, and Meg breathed deeply in relief.

"Did they come from a local shop? This is only our first day here!"

Erik smiled smugly and removed his coat to place it upon the back of the same plush chair that held his satchel.

"On my way out of the hotel to the bank, this morning, I had the concierge set up an appointment for this afternoon."

"This dress is beautiful, but I do look forward to having a larger wardrobe. What did you talk about? And what were their names?"

"Mr. Schmidt is a representative of a large clothing emporium in the city, and he brought with him his assistant, a Ms. Caron." He walked toward one bedroom door, looked inside, then crossed the sitting room to see the other. "I told them that our luggage had been mishandled and that we were in desperate need of replacement garments. I ordered minimally."

After looking into the second room, he returned to the chair where he'd left his belongings. He gathered his things and returned to the first room, disappearing inside.

Meg hoped his actions were a clear sign, so she walked toward the second door, to view her suite. The bed was only a single, but it looked heavenly. A large wardrobe stood on one end of the room, with a vanity and chest on the other. There was a small sitting area, with two small padded chairs and a decorative table between them. The sunlight streamed through a large window, above the chairs.

Meg excitedly ran to see through the curtains. The window looked out onto a private courtyard, most likely for patrons of the Astor Hotel to use away from the general public. She smiled at the beautiful rows of hedges, lawns, and flower beds. It wasn't large, and it was currently unoccupied. She smiled wistfully and backed away from the pretty view.

Through a door next to the wardrobe, an adjoining bathroom with ornate tilework and fixtures awaited her. Her smile widened when she saw the porcelain clawfoot tub. It was the largest she had ever seen. She also had a private commode and another vanity with an inlaid sink.

Erik caught her off her guard, when she exited the bath to find him standing in the doorway.

"Does it meet your standards?"

Meg halted, leaning her hand on the wardrobe.

"You know my only experience is my dorm in the Opera Populaire," she softly answered. "Are these my private rooms?"

"No, not completely," Erik stated. His tone wasn't unpleasant, but his words were firm. "I am granting you a minute amount of freedom. Your behavior will determine how much time I will allow you to spend alone. Is that agreeable?"

"Yes," she sighed. She sat on the bed and looked at the floor.

From the corner of her sight, she saw Erik enter her bedroom. She vaguely registered the sound of something being placed on the vanity behind her, and then he returned to the doorway.

"You did very well last night, as well as this afternoon."

Meg turned her head and looked squarely at him. He was focused on the window, but he turned to meet her gaze. He smiled at her. A small, understated smile that barely curled his lips upwards; his eyes were kinder, as if the smile originated behind them.

"You are more resourceful and adaptive than I could have foreseen, Meg." The flicker of kindness behind his eyes was extinguished, and he adopted a harder expression. "Do not betray me, or I will break you of those qualities."

He left her alone, returning to the main room. Meg fell backward onto the bed. It was comfortable. But it now felt like a prison.

_He is two different people in one body. So creative and charming one moment, suave and intelligent. And, in the next, he's cold and calculating, distrustful and malicious. Anything that may have potential to lift my spirits… he ruins._

She lay there for a few minutes, simply thinking of what tomorrow might bring. The light in her room began to dim, so she rose from the bed and walked toward the window. On the vanity was the Phantom's copy of _Les Misérables_. Her courtyard view did not show the sunset, but she watched the hues in the sky become more and more saturated.

Another knock at the door grabbed her attention, and she walked to the doorway. An attendant in his hotel uniform wheeled in a tray with two silver cloches. Under one of his arms, he had a sizeable package. Meg's eyes alit in curiosity, trying to figure out what the large box could contain. Clearly, not something heavy.

The serviceman left the tray in the center of the room and placed the lightweight package on the closest table. Erik gave him a tip and waved him out, once again locking them in.

Before the light left the room, Erik went around the room to light the gas lamps. Meg walked to the tray and lifted a cloche. On the plate, a fine dinner was still steaming in its heat. Some type of small bird that Meg did not recognize, with what looked to be boiled potatoes and a light salad. Her mouth was watering at the smell of the fresh meal.

There were no accompanying beverages, though. Meg looked around the room and saw a decanter with an amber liquid inside. She returned to her bathroom and found a pitcher with two glasses nearby. She filled the pitcher with water from the faucet, carefully held both glasses in one hand, and returned to the shared area.

Erik had finished his chore, and he, too, lifted a cloche to see what they had been served. He moved both plates to the dining table. Meg placed the pitcher and glasses in the table's center, then she poured herself a full glass. Her dinner partner grabbed the empty glass and strode over to the decanter.

Their meal proceeded in terse silence. Meg was upset by Erik's previous remarks. Erik glanced at her occasionally, looking as if he wanted to say more.

The package contained nightclothes for the both of them, as Meg found out after dinner. She was given an ecru nightgown and a sheer robe; Erik had a white night shirt and a thicker black robe.

They each changed into their bed clothes, separated and in private. Without Erik's help, it had taken Meg much longer to remove her dress and undergarments. She put everything away in its place. The door to her bedroom was shut, but it did not lock. The nightgown was beautiful, as was the robe that matched. Like the dress, she had never worn anything so elegant. Especially to bed. Unlike the dress, this ensemble was only meant for her.

She used the brush on the vanity and tamed her tangled locks. Her gaze landed on the book. She looked toward the door.

Wondering if she was being possessed, she placed the brush back on the vanity, picked up the book, and walked out of her room.

Erik was in his sleepwear, as well. The nightshirt was a plain linen, but the robe was striking. The material shone in the lamplight and Meg had the strangest urge to pet it with her hand. It looked incredibly soft. Delicate gold roping trimmed the lapels and cuffs.

He looked surprised to see her, until he noticed what she carried. He gestured for her to sit with him on the sofa.

The book was handed over, and Erik rifled through the pages once again, searching for where they had left the characters. Once he found what he was looking for, he pulled Meg closer to him and guided her to lay against his seated body.

"Marius kept his promise. He dropped a kiss on that livid brow, where the icy perspiration stood in beads. This was no infidelity to Cosette; it was a gentle and pensive farewell to an unhappy soul. It was not without a tremor…"

The story unfolded further: Marius and Cosette's growing affections, Gavroche and his singing, Enjolras's zeal, and Valjean's mulling over what to do.

Meg's eyes began to droop and she could not conceal the yawn that escaped her lips.

Erik finished the sentence he was reading, then he placed the book on the sofa beside him.

"I'm flattered that you prefer my narration to reading the story for yourself."

Meg yawned, again, and forced herself to answer.

"As you said, it's a more interesting story when you know how to read it."

She started to pick herself up, but Erik pulled her back to his side. She gave a huff of protest.

"I would like you to stay with me tonight."

The bold statement roused Meg from her sleepy state and made her tense.

Erik, sensing her discomfort, sighed loudly.

"It's not a demand, Meg," he assured her. "It's a wish. You have your own bed." He let the back his hand graze her arm. "But I would be pleased if you shared mine. Your fetching attire has my…full attention."

Remembering their exchange earlier, Meg pushed herself away from Erik. Away from his two-sided demeanor. His unpredictability. She wanted him to trust her, but she was unwilling to let him use her body and then say such callous things to her.

"You pull me to your bed, after saying such cruel things to me. You compliment me, then you threaten me. Sometimes you act like I am a burden, a nuisance…until you are wanting to seduce me."

She stood and began to walk toward her room. It had taken all her courage to say what was in her heart. She didn't have enough strength within her to look in his eyes as she poured out her feelings. He was uncharacteristically silent, so she glanced at him before entering her bedroom. His countenance was as cold as the mask he wore. His eyes were narrowed and his jaw was clenched. She took a breath to strengthen her resolve.

"I am not the only one who needs to earn trust."

Erik remained silent, as Meg entered her bedroom and closed the door.


	22. Unlikely Interactions

Meg awoke early in the morning, feeling magnificent after a night in her plush bed. She stretched her arms over her head and looked toward the large window. The room was chilly, and she hadn't noticed how the temperature had dropped while she slept under the multiple layers of bedding.

She put the sheer robe back on, coveting Erik's thicker night robe. Quietly, she opened the door of her bedroom and glanced about. Erik sat in front of a blazing fire in the fireplace, on the very sofa that they had shared the night before. He did not appear to be doing anything, besides drinking from a teacup and watching the fire's animated glow.

On their dining table, another silver tray held a teapot, cream and sugar, another teacup and saucer, and what looked to be scones of some sort. She served herself, occasionally glancing at Erik, who did not turn or speak to acknowledge her in any way.

She moved toward the fire, choosing to sit in one of the armchairs that sat perpendicular to the sofa, closer to the fireplace. Erik, she now saw, was mostly dressed, wearing his white shirt, black slacks, and shoes. The sleeves were rolled up to the middle of his forearms; the vest and jacket were probably still hanging up. He sat leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees and both hands on his own cup and saucer.

Meg wasn't much of a tea drinker, but she took small sips of the hot liquid, grateful for the warmth it gave her body.

Erik still looked straight ahead.

"Thank you for ordering the tea."

He nodded curtly, but paid her no other attention. She sighed and took a bite of the biscuit on her saucer. It was hard and mostly flavorless. She scrunched her nose in dismay and placed the unpalatable food back on her saucer. Her mouth was dry from the chalkiness of the cookie, so she sipped from her cup.

"You're supposed to dip it in your tea," Erik spoke up, in a matter-of-fact tone.

Meg looked at him in curiosity, but he was still focused on the fire. She did as he suggested, dunking the hard pastry with her fingers holding as little of it as possible. When she tasted it, the scone was a completely new experience. It was sweeter and softer. Much better. She finished the breakfast cookie, placed her empty teacup and saucer on the small table next to her chair, and sat back.

The silence continued, until a knock sounded at the door. Meg hurried to her room, not wanting to be seen in her nightgown. She heard Erik speaking English to whomever had entered. Soon after, there was a knock on her own door.

The woman from yesterday, Ms. Caron, gave her a smile and glided into her bedroom without waiting for an invitation. She held a new dress in her outstretched arms. She placed it upon the bed.

The assistant helped Meg into the new garment, a pretty lavender shade, with slim sleeves and a black jacket that fit snugly over the top of the dress. The skirt was not as full as the lapis blue gown, and the material was not quite as fine. The adornments of white pearl buttons and white ruffles on her neck and at the ends of the sleeves were understated.

Once Meg was dressed in her new outfit, undergarments and stockings included, Ms. Caron motioned for her to sit at her vanity. The woman brushed out Meg's tangles and set to work using pins everywhere upon her head, fastening the finger curls to the sides of her face and sweeping the majority of her hair into a low bun at the nape of her neck.

"Are…you…safe?"

Meg looked at her helper with astonishment. Before she could respond, Ms. Caron continued.

"My family…from France. My grandmother. I'm sorry. I know…little French."

Meg smiled at her effort.

"Yes, I am…safe."

The woman left the room and returned with a hatbox and a pair of white boots. She helped Meg put the boots on, closing up all the complicated buttons. The hat was black and plain, with a medium brim and a large black fabric bow on what would be the left side of her face. While she pinned it to her hair, Ms. Caron spoke in her broken French, again.

"Who is…the man?"

Meg hesitated, unsure of how to explain the situation. She smiled reassuringly.

"He manages me."

"'Manages?' What is…that word?"

"He writes…plays music. I dance. We work together."

The woman's eyes widened in surprise.

"You are…dancer?"

"Yes, I am a ballerina."

"Ah! Beautiful!"

Meg smiled brightly at the kind woman. She recognized that she was speaking French alone in her room to someone who wasn't Erik. The thought had quickly flitted through her mind to write or say something to indicate that she needed help, but she didn't want to endanger this poor innocent woman.

"He is…good? Nice?"

Ms. Caron looked deeply into her eyes, trying to read anything that Meg might say in between her words.

"Yes."

"What is…" the older woman struggled with what word to say next. Exasperated with her lack of fluency, she used her right hand to cover the left side of her face.

"Ah," Meg nodded in understanding. "The 'mask,'" she clarified.

"'Mask?'" Ms. Caron repeated the word, trying to pronounce it correctly. It sounded like she had never heard it before. When Meg nodded in encouragement, Ms. Caron continued her line of questioning. "Why?"

Again, Meg struggled with what to tell her. She could come up with something feasible, but she wished Erik had instructed her with what to say.

"It is from…fire." Meg gingerly touched her face in the area that the Phantom's affliction was. She mimed her skin being hot to the touch, then placed her hands in her lap and looked very saddened.

Mercifully, the inquisitive woman nodded and abandoned the conversation. She brought a pair of white gloves with small pearls on them to Meg, completing the ensemble. Meg walked to a full-length mirror in the corner of her room to admire her new look.

A knock sounded at the door, and Erik walked in, followed by the lanky Mr. Schmidt. The older gentleman applauded Meg's transformation; Erik nodded his assent.

The sales duo left, after speaking for a few more minutes with their male customer, and Erik and Meg were left alone in the sitting room.

Meg looked over to Erik, whose outfit looked mostly similar to what he had already worn, except for a new pinstriped black waistcoat, a black tie, and a black fedora. His shoes were black, as well, and they shined brilliantly.

"Ms. Caron knows some French," Meg said softly.

Erik's head whipped from the door to where she stood.

"Oh, really?" he sneered. "I should've known better than to leave you alone with her." He shook his head and strode over to his bedroom.

Meg's frustration grew, upset that he was basically accusing her without hearing her out. She followed him.

"Don't you want to know what was said?" she called out to him.

He went to his long gray jacket that was perched across a chair.

Arriving in his doorway, Meg glanced with surprise around the room. It was functional, but hardly lavish. The single bed was not as grand as her own, and there was no sitting area. He did have a small desk with one small chair, the same chair that held up his jacket.

He still had yet to respond to her, as he righted his attire and placed his signature skull cufflinks in their spots. Satisfied with his preening, he picked up the jacket and completed outfitting himself.

Meg took the pause in conversation as an opportunity to see the rest of his room. He had no window, and his bathroom was about half the size of hers. He had clearly seen both rooms and taken the lesser of the two. The fact struck a sympathetic chord in her heart.

Erik was finished, and he moved to leave his room. Meg grabbed his arm as he passed.

"Wait," she pleaded. She was no longer angry at his accusatory tone; she only wanted to clear the air. "Ms. Caron wanted to know if I felt safe with you and who you were to me."

He was glaring at her suspiciously. She had let go of him, once he had stopped to listen to her.

"I told her that you were my manager and that, yes, I was safe. Then, she wanted to know why you wore the mask."

Erik calmed, but his tone was still derisive. "Did you tell her that my business is my own?"

"Well, no," she admitted, regretting that they had never agreed on what to say in such a delicate situation. "I said there was a fire, and that you were burned."

He gave a single, tight nod. "Very well. If you must, use that explanation in the future, as well. But do not go into specifics. There is no need."

Meg smiled. She left his room and he followed.

"We are dressed to go out. Where are we going?" She hoped her transition would be well met and that Erik would, indeed, take her with him on this day.

Erik watched Meg, as if he was trying to read into her mind.

"There is a rather large park that was just built in the middle of this city. I've heard it's quite beautiful. Would you like to see it?"

"I would," Meg grinned.

He offered his arm, and she accepted it.

"Can we visit a bookshop, as well? I do want to finish _Les Misérables_ , but I would love some lighter reading."

He nodded, not looking at her, as they left the room and made their way to the lobby. As it was the day before, stares followed wherever they went. Heads turned to examine the Phantom's stark white mask and the attractive young woman who was with him.

They took a hansom cab to Central Park, where visitors roamed the breathtaking paths at their leisure. Men tipped their hats to one another, some walking with canes, some without. Ladies promenaded past the manicured lawns, some with parasols, some concealed by hats with ridiculously large brims and fanning themselves. There were children, too, most with nannies struggling to keep them in line, running in the artificial wilderness. Every so often, a dog would trot by with its owner.

Meg's eyes lit up at the lively scenery, watching the society around her. Erik seemed less impressed and was obviously trying to avoid walking by the many strangers…as best as he could. They came to a bench in a secluded, relatively empty area. They sat and watched their surroundings.

"Isn't this beautiful, Erik? I cannot believe a place like this exists!"

"Mmm-hmm," was the only sound that he made.

He had been so cold to her. Ever since her refusal last night. _He has no right to act this childish! I am being perfectly civil,_ she reasoned with herself. _Did my standing up for myself really affect our relationship to the point that he will no longer be friendly to me?_

She was in a gorgeous location, wearing delightful new clothes, sitting next to a fascinating, mysterious man whom she had enjoyed many conversations with. And, now, he stared at the flora around them with little interest.

Tempted to accuse him of acting like a child for refusing to engage with her, Meg remembered how she felt earlier, when she had walked out of his bedroom. She bit her tongue and let the awkwardness remain between them.

They left the park soon after, with Meg sorely disappointed not in the park's reputed beauty, but in the loneliness she felt while sitting next to someone whom she had hoped would enjoy the outing as much as she did.

In the cab on the way over, Erik had spied a bookstore that bordered the park. They walked together unhurriedly to the nearby location.

The store was quaint, and it stretched further to the back than could be assumed from its entrance. At the register, a man of about thirty, short and with dark blonde hair stood and waited to greet the possible new customers.

The man greeted them with a smile, but then his voice faltered, when he noticed Erik's masked face. He forced a smile and finished the latter half of his sentence.

Meg smiled, and the shopkeeper's attention was effectively drawn away. He smiled back at her pretty face, blushing a bit for good measure. She stepped away from Erik to look at the titles. Most were, of course, in English.

Erik looked to the young man and asked him something. He replied with only a few words; he then led them to the back of the store, where Meg finally saw herself flanked by French books on every side of the narrow room. She walked from case to case, trying to see if she recognized any of the authors. Eric stood nearby, but the room was too cramped to fit all three of them.

When the young worker left to greet another customer who had entered the store, Erik left the room, as well, staying close enough to see Meg, but far enough away to give her some privacy. She had found a few interesting titles, shorter reads, all of which centered around either dance or romance.

From the back of the room, hidden behind a bookcase, a narrow door opened to reveal the same short man who had escorted her and Erik to the French titles section.

" _Bonjour, mademoiselle_."

"You speak French?" Meg asked.

"I do. And I am happy that it enables me to tell you how beautiful you are in your own romantic language."

She blushed at the overdone compliment, surprised to hear him speak with such ease and confidence. It was a far cry from the conversation she had earlier with Ms. Caron.

"Thank you, sir. And thank you for showing us to your French section. We only just arrived to New York, and I have not yet learned English."

"That will come in time, I'm sure." He looked toward to where Erik had moved. Meg noticed that he was staying well out of her guardian's range of sight. "What is your name, beautiful?"

"I'm M-, um, Adelina," she forced out. _I need to practice introducing myself with my new identity in a more convincing way. That was terrible!_

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Adelina," he grabbed her hand, suddenly, bringing her gloved knuckles to his chapped lips. "My name is Roger. May I ask who you are with?"

"I am with my…guardian, Danton. He is my manager."

"Your manager? Your guardian? He looks too frightening to be worthy of your presence!"

She yanked her hand away from him and rested it upon the small pile of books that she held.

"That is a cruel thing to say, _monsieur_."

"I apologize," he replied insincerely. "What of yours does he 'manage,' then?"

"He is a genius composer, and I am to be the lead dancer in his new show."

"Ah," he smiled in smug satisfaction, as if he realized something. "You _dance_ for him? If I had enough money to keep you comfortable, would you _dance_ for me, too?"

Meg's jaw dropped in shock. She turned to find Erik, frustrated that her companion had been right: even if she was able to find someone able to speak French, she wouldn't necessarily find an ally.

Erik registered her coming toward him, but he walked away from her, to the register. The cashier reemerged from the back, meeting them both with a smile, as if he hadn't just insulted Meg moments ago. Meg wordlessly placed the three novels on the counter, refusing to make eye contact with the man ringing up the purchase. Erik placed an additional, larger book next to her own stack, then paid for all four items.

Carefully packaged in a parcel, Erik tucked it under one arm and led Meg toward the exit. She grabbed his other arm with both of her hands and pulled herself up against Erik tightly. He looked down at her with surprise, but her head was turned toward the shopkeeper and she glared at him sourly.

Outside, Erik questioned the odd interaction.

"What was that about?"

She cringed at how annoyed he sounded. "He had a back entrance into the room he showed us to, and he said some rude things to me." Her grip had loosened, but she still had both gloved hands on his upper arm.

Instead of showing her sympathy, he smirked sardonically at her, while hailing the service of a cabbie.

"My, my, another French speaker in the same day. Where is your determination to escape? You may not see odds like this, again."

She felt her heart drop in her chest, and her face fell along with it.

The ride back to the hotel was uncomfortably silent. They sat alongside each other, but their bodies only touched due to their cramped seating. No interaction took place, as Erik stared out at the passing buildings and Meg contemplated how to repair the even worse predicament she found herself in.

Once back in the privacy of their rooms, Meg walked toward her room to remove her gloves, hat, and jacket. Erik followed her and placed the parcel on the vanity, and then he left without a glance in her direction. She looked at the package in surprise. Had he not taken the book he purchased for himself?

She untied the string and ripped open the brown paper. The three smaller books were set aside; she picked up the remaining book and began the short trip to wherever Erik might be. As she walked, she flipped through the pages. It looked like drawings of fashion.

 _Not just fashion…these are costumes,_ she corrected herself. _With instructions on how to draw them proportionally to a drawn form._

Erik had the same idea as Meg, returning to his room to remove his own accessories. She placed the book on his tiny desk and went to leave his room, not wishing to disturb him while he was in a foul mood.

"That is for you."

She stopped in his doorway.

"The book?" she asked, feeling like an idiot as soon as the obvious question came out of her mouth.

He handed the book back to her, and she looked up to him in confusion.

"Why-"

"You were sketching costumes on the ship. I assumed you might want to continue in that creative vein."

The thoughtfulness in his act left her dumbfounded, so, book in hand, she left his room to return to the comfort of her own.

They did not speak during lunch, nor during dinner. Meg felt she might scream to alleviate the awkward tension in the air, but she did not actually do so. In imagining the scenario in her head, she came up with multiple humorous responses that Erik might do or say.

At the end of the night, Meg changed out of her new dress and into her gown and robe. She picked up the copy of _Les Misérables_ and peeked into the common room. No Erik. No fire. No light.

She took a taper candle in its holder and lit it in her bedroom, taking the light source and the novel to the sofa. She found a knit blanket in a basket beside one of the armchairs. Placing it over her lap, she shivered and opened the large book, trying to find where Erik had last left off.

 _Why can't he use bookmarks like every normal person?_ Her irritation grew with each attempt to find the correct passage. She saw plenty of familiar lines, but she could not figure out where they had stopped the story.

Meg looked over to Erik's shut door. Biting her lip, she thought about knocking and asking him to join her. _No,_ she thought, _I can't buckle after one day. If he is to take me and my affections seriously, I need to keep my distance._

Reluctantly, she rose from the sofa and took the candle and book with her, allowing the blanket to fall to the floor. She extinguished the lights in her room and jumped into her bed, wondering if her convictions made even a lick of sense.


	23. Enough, Now

**Hello, all!**

**Here you are, at the final chapter of "His Consolation Prize." There is a sequel to this story called "Her Heart's Desire." It takes place during the events of "Love Never Dies," and it is my reimagining of that terrible musical. It is currently (as I write this on 2/27/20) in progress. Please check it out on my profile, if you feel so inclined.**

**The lyrics for "Doll on a Music Box" from "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang" are the creation of the fabulous Sherman Brothers, not myself.**

**Thank you, in advance, for your opinions and support!**

**Happy reading!**

**Jenn**

* * *

Meg had consumed books in her spare time, but _Les Misérables_ remained untouched from its perch on her vanity. She would glance at it, occasionally, in the first few days after their strained encounter in front of the fireplace. It saddened her, for some reason. But, as the weeks passed, she noticed it less and less, as the abandoned novel's significance waned and it became little more than a fixture in her room.

Her days consisted of singing lessons, rehearsal of material, and preparations for the meetings Erik had arranged with potential investors.

He was a perfectionist, as he had always been, but he understood that her voice would never match Christine's. As he played scales on the grand piano in their room, she pushed herself to sing with more passion than she had ever before shown. They both acknowledged improvement, but Erik kept her melodies simple and repetitive.

When he retreated to his room to write letters of business or rest, Meg would stretch her muscles and work on her flexibility. She had finished choreographing her signature song, but she was still uncomfortable pairing the dance with her singing. Away from Erik's critiques, she practiced her performance daily.

Erik remained cold in his interactions with his ward, only speaking of Phantasma and necessities. No pleasantries. He was polite, but guarded. The excursions they made were occasional and limited in time and scope. Meg had not met another French-speaking person, as far as she could tell.

And the door to their room was always locked. And Erik always had possession of the key.

To be truthful to herself, Meg was no longer invested in the idea of escaping. She sketched costumes before bed and fell asleep to the music box melody in her head, sometimes being played on the piano out in the main room. Her muscles twitched in response to the mechanical movements that accompanied the notes. Her dreams were of performing onstage to glowing reviews and raucous applause. Sometimes, her dream self would look to the wings of the illuminated stage and find the Phantom smiling at her in the shadows.

Ms. Caron visited with Mr. Schmidt on four more occasions: twice to add to her wardrobe, once to make alterations, and once to bring her some additional accessories. Each time, they had smiled through the somewhat stilted conversations with broken and simplified French.

One morning, during yet another conversation-less breakfast, Meg showed Erik the design she had drawn for the costume she envisioned for her routine. It wasn't art, but she had put hours and weeks of focus into this presentation. She would wear a costume similar to the porcelain ballerina that she had shattered all those years ago.

Erik nodded in agreement, but he acted mostly apathetic to her obvious enthusiasm. Something in her heart broke, a little, at his lack of strong support. He took her drawings and promised to send them with specific instructions to Ms. Caron.

Two weeks later, Ms. Caron arrived with the glittering garment and a proud smile. She had with her two female assistants, ready to complete the costume after a fitting.

Meg and the three seamstresses stayed in Meg's room for hours, while Erik waited outside. When Meg emerged wearing the completed ensemble, she smiled triumphantly. Erik couldn't withhold his admiration, widening his eyes and slackening his jaw.

Her blonde hair was pulled into a taut bun at the top of her head, with clear and various shades of blue crystals in a comb that mimicked a small tiara. There was a fine dusting of powder on her skin, every exposed inch, that had a luminescent quality about it. It shimmered ever so slightly in the candlelight and gave her an ethereal glow. Her costume had no straps, but there were petite, ruffled cuffs on each of her upper arms that were a powder blue with pure white lace trim. Her top was white with ivory embroidery and clear crystals sewn into an ornate design. The skirt looked as if it had been slowly dipped in dye, as the color went from white at her waistline to a gradual light blue. The skirt was stiff and full, with white lace and more crystals at the edges of the tutu. Finishing the costume, Meg wore opaque white stockings and flat white slippers that had silver paint on the toes. She looked like a winter fairy without her wings.

When Meg cleared her throat, Erik's eyes returned to her own and his mouth abruptly shut. She smiled shyly and looked at him hopefully. He rewarded her with a small smile and a curt nod of approval.

After the seamstresses left, Meg changed into her nightgown. It was too late for dinner; her fitting had taken all evening. She was hungry, but she was certain Erik had already eaten. As she brushed her hair at her vanity, her stomach rumbled. There was a knock on her door, so she placed the brush down, put on her sheer robe, and answered.

Erik was dressed in his robe as well, and the two of them shared a smile at their similar ways of thinking.

"Are you hungry? I ordered a simple meal for our late dinner."

He held out his hand in invitation, and she quickly took it. His hand was warm, and when she went out into the common room, she saw why. A blazing fire illuminated the room, and he had placed their food on the tables at either end of the sofa. She wondered if her blushing was visible in the dim light, as he led her to be seated.

They enjoyed their soup, a crab bisque, while soaking in the heat from the fire. Similar to their previous meals, they did not speak, but there was no tension on this occasion. Meg finished and sighed contentedly. Erik had already finished his, but he had waited until she was done to remove both of their bowls to the table where they usually ate. She watched the fire flicker and leaned back into the soft cushions behind her.

Erik returned with a book in his hand and sat next to her, keeping his back straight and leaving room between them. He fanned through the pages and stopped when he reached what he was looking for. Then he turned toward her.

"Shall we continue?"

"I'd like that."

He read from _Les Misérables_. Valjean was about to release Javert. Meg sat up and leaned into Erik, craving his comfort and affection. He continued reading, but he draped his arm over her and relaxed back into the sofa.

When her breathing began to slow and deepen, he placed the book beside him and leaned up to stand. Meg roused and stretched her coiled limbs. As she readied her body to get up, Erik knelt down and picked her up like a bride, carrying her toward her room. She stiffened as they reached the doorway.

"Thank you, I think I can manage…"

Erik shushed her and strode towards her bed. He lay her down gently and walked out of the room. He turned back to her, holding the door handle.

"Goodnight, Meg."

"Goodnight, Erik. Thank you."

He shut the door and Meg fell asleep quickly.

" _How can you tell…I'm – under a spell…I'm – waiting for love's first kiss."_

_She stiffly brought her hands back toward her mouth, while the instrumental break in the song played. The "music box" she was on slowly turned her entire body at the center of the stage. It did not make her dizzy, but she lamented that she could not see the expressions of the audience. Did they like it? Would they applaud her solo debut, or would they laugh when she was done?_

" _You cannot see…you people gazing at me…"_

_Her dance continued, but she only moved from the waist up. Her feet were planted on the moving pedestal to keep her steady._

_Was he there? Would he approve?_

"… _while…I'm…turning around and around."_

 _She had finished singing, and the pedestal stopped on cue. She stepped down and the music played on as she went up_ en pointe _. This was her true moment to shine. Showing off her extensive talent and training, she leapt and turned gracefully all over the stage. This part of her routine was fluid and in direct contrast to the jerky, mechanical movements on the turning pedestal._

_When she finished, she ran to the center of the stage to bow humbly. At first there was nothing, then a shower of applause resounded throughout the large building. Flowers of every color were individually thrown to her feet. She placed her right hand over her heart and dipped low to show her gratitude. As her eyes looked down, she saw a red rose with a black ribbon land on top of the floral pile._

_She looked up to box five, where the Phantom stood in the shadow clapping his gloved hands with fervor. She blew him a kiss and trotted offstage._

_In her dressing room, she sat at the vanity, surrounded by bouquets of flowers from admirers. She held the Phantom's rose and closed her eyes to inhale its perfume._

" _Brava, Brava, Bravissima…"_

_The last word echoed within the walls of her room and she smiled. After laying the rose down, she stood and crossed to the door, locking herself in. Then she walked to the floor length mirror and waited._

_Erik appeared as if by magic. But it was an illusion, she knew. He was lit by torches in the hallway that stretched back from the other side of the mirror. He was dressed in his black floor-length cloak, a burgundy waistcoat and matching ascot with a silver pin. The white collar was all that could be seen of his shirt, and his black slacks were tailored perfectly to his form._

_Meg felt her heart pound in her chest. She felt the danger, the taboo nature of their meeting. He nodded with his serious face._

_She took off every piece of her costume slowly, raking her fingertips across the different areas of her body. Each item was dropped in abandon, left ungraciously on the floor beneath her. She removed the jeweled tiara from her hair, and loosened her locks so that her mane cascaded around her naked shoulders._

_She stood unashamedly before him, bared and wanting. The mirror slid open and traces of smoke theatrically curled around the baseboard and carpet. The Phantom reached a gloved hand out to her. She placed her small hand within his, but as he pulled her towards him, she resisted._

_He frowned at her. She smiled playfully and pulled him toward her. He complied, looking relieved, and they fell upon the chaise together. He kissed her softly, tenderly, while she smoothly relieved him of each of his vestments. Locked in a passionate kiss, he removed his gloves with frustration before finally feeling her soft skin._

_A knock at the door was dismissed, but the interrupting agent continued to barrage the door._

"Meg?"

Meg roused from her dream, unwillingly. She yawned and struggled to open her eyes. Light cascaded through her room from the large window, and she felt a familiar wet heat between her legs.

Another knock.

"Meg! Are you coming out for breakfast or not?"

"Yes," her voice rasped. She cleared her throat and tried again. "Yes, I'll be out soon!"

At the end of the week, their relations had much improved. Little concessions here and there. Smiles, spoken encouragement and gratitude, brief touches of tenderness… Erik finished reading _Les Misérables_ and they had a long discussion afterwards of its messages and symbolism.

The beginning of the following week was their first appointment with a potential business partner. Erik ordered a larger carriage, to transport not only the two of them, but the trunk that held Meg's costume. The ride to their destination was filled with contemplative silence, as Erik and Meg both mentally prepared to play their roles.

They arrived to a home address, a four-story brick building that had beautiful trimmings and curtains. Erik helped Meg out of the carriage, squeezing her hand lightly to give her silent encouragement for what she was about to go through.

Inside the home, the furnishings were a mixture of different eras and countries. It was all quite gauche. The butler showed them to a large entertaining room, where the two of them chose chairs to sit upon, while waiting on their hosts. Erik's chair was a large Berère made with dark green velvet and gold rope at all the seams. Meg's was an antique Fauteuil, with delicate needlepoint bouquets of flowers on every cushioned surface.

Nothing matched, but every piece was, individually, exquisite and expensive.

When the occupants of the home entered, Meg held the chuckle in the back of her throat to a small smirk of amusement. The elderly man wore a simple suit, navies and grays, with an over-embellished, embroidered red robe with black lapels. It looked oriental, in design, with pink cherry blossom flowers on black branches rolling down each sleeve. He shook Erik's hand and passed through to sit on a chair that looked humorously like a throne. The back of his robe showed a coiled dragon with menacing claws and artistic fire coming from its mouth.

His wife was younger…much younger. She could not be older than her thirties. She wore a taffeta chartreuse dress with as many accoutrements as the design would allow. Gold buttons that looked like ancient coins, pearls attached to the peaks of every piece of lace, ruffles and pleats in abundance… She wore a large black hat with white ostrich plumes and a tulle bow with dots of pearls at every junction. And the black fur muff… which, along with the hat, was removed and placed on the chaise that she gracefully posed herself on.

 _Did she wear those accessories indoors for our benefit?_ Meg wondered incredulously. Erik, meanwhile, rose to greet the madam and kissed her gloved hand once she was seated.

The three spoke English, and Meg quietly pretended to be interested in the foreign conversation. Erik seemed to be charming the wife, and, judging by the number of laughs he solicited, he was succeeding. The older man nodded occasionally, but he was never permitted to speak more than two words at a time before his wife chimed in enthusiastically.

Erik motioned to Meg, and Meg knew that was her cue to go change into her costume. The woman of the house called out a name and some maid named Mary escorted Meg to a bedroom that already held the trunk. Mary waited in the corner, as Meg pulled out each item. When Meg needed help with a closure or positioning of her accessories, the servant dutifully stepped in.

Meg reemerged as her porcelain ballerina self, forcing herself to take deep breaths to calm her spirits. Her muscles were warm enough to do the simple moves she had choreographed, although necessity had called for her to add to the dance, seeing as Erik had not been able to finish constructing a makeshift turning pedestal in time for her performance.

Her audience of three watched with rapt attention, as she took her first pose. Erik walked over to the metronome on the piano at the far end of the room and placed it on the coffee table between the clustering of chairs. He set it for a proper tempo, then sat back to watch. The metronome clicked back and forth at a leisurely walking pace. Meg took a deep breath.

"What do you see? You people gazing at me?

You see a doll on a music box that's wound by a key.

How can you tell…I'm – under a spell, I'm – waiting for love's first kiss!

You cannot see, you people gazing at me,

Turning around on this music box that's wound by a key.

Yearning…yearning…while…I'm…turning around and around."

She finished her _a capella_ version of the song, isolating her movements to be as stiff and mechanical as possible, then concluded with a half bow at her waist.

The fancy woman gave muffled applause from her gloved hands, gushing to Erik of Meg's performance. She was all smiles. Her husband also clapped, although with less zeal. He nodded appreciatively at Meg, who breathed a sigh of relief and gave a more traditional, demure curtsey.

Meg left the room to change out of the costume, while Erik engaged the two would-be investors in deep conversation.

Eventually, she and Erik left the home, loading themselves and the trunk into their carriage. When they were settled in the cab, Erik turned to her and gave her the biggest smile she had ever seen appear on his normally serious face.

"We have our first investor," he told her.

Meg let out a shriek of joy and embraced Erik. He cautiously held her, then gently pushed her back to her seat. She wasn't perturbed by the gesture, but continued the conversation.

"What were their names? No one introduced themselves properly, I was so confused. And what atrocious tastes that woman had! Wasn't her husband's robe too ridiculous? And why was she wearing a muff indoors? How much money will they contribute? Did they say anything nice about my performance?"

Erik's mouth had dropped at the deluge of questioning, and his eyebrows were raised in his overwhelmed state. Meg ceased her chattering and took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry, Erik, I'm just excited," she explained. "I am so very happy for you, that it went well. One more step closer to Phantasma, right?"

He smirked arrogantly. "Yes, indeed." He took one of her hands and planted it within both of his. "They are the very rich Mr. and Mrs. Dipplethwaite, and they will contribute five thousand dollars to our show."

Meg's eyes widened at the huge amount, then she giggled. "Dipplethwaite? What an odd name. It's appropriate, though, I think."

"Mrs. Dipplethwaite is the third wife, a former dancer herself, apparently. She spends her husband's oil money on sporadic purchases, but she also considers herself and her husband to be celebrated patrons of the arts."

Meg smiled and leaned into Erik, who stiffened at the intimate contact.

"Five thousand dollars…" she whispered in awe.

He smiled, and she could hear it in his voice when he responded, "Five thousand dollars." He cleared his throat, then, and his tone was more serious. "This first meeting was supposed to be an easy sell. I wanted you to feel…assured in your ability. I wanted you to have the same confidence in yourself as I do…in you."

She pulled away and looked into his austere face. Her smile was returned with one of his own.

"I wish I could make all of our potential business investors this agreeable, but not all of them will be so gracious. Or so courteous." He let go of her hand and gently cupped her chin. "But, as I promised you on the ship, I will protect you. I will make you a star. And we will make Phantasma a show unlike any that the world has ever seen!"

They sank into a comfortable silence, resting their minds from the mental strains of the day, and the carriage lightly jostled them to their destination.

Back in their hotel room, Meg immediately went to her quarters to refresh herself. Erik had ordered dinner before they left for their afternoon meeting, and it was waiting under silver cloches on the dining table. She removed the black jacket she wore, as well as her black boots, hat, and white gloves. She pulled every hairpin out and shook her blonde tresses free. Relaxed and ready for a casual dinner, she left her room to find her dining companion.

Erik was seated, still wearing his suit and accessories, but his gray jacket was not in sight. She assumed he had already hung it up in his wardrobe. He had been watching her door, and he nodded when she finally entered the common area.

"I'm sorry for making you wait, I thought you might start without me," she apologized. She sat down and removed the cloche in front of her. Erik did the same.

"I didn't mind waiting," he stated matter-of-factly.

They recounted the earlier appointment, with Erik filling Meg in on every detail of the conversations he had in English with the Dipplethwaites, while eating the braised duck that had been prepared for them.

"While you were changing out of your costume, she asked about your dance experience. I said you were a _prima ballerina_ in Paris, and you were eager to make your debut in America. I told her about your inspiration for your solo number and that you did everything but write the lyrics. She was especially impressed with your pronunciation, given that you only speak French."

"Did she like the dance? Did she like my choreography?"

"She thought it was amusing, and that it fit the theme well. She was more intrigued with the idea of you performing while on a moving pedestal."

"Ah…so, did she have anything else to say about me?"

Erik hesitated and took a bite, looking at Meg and holding back his smile.

"Erik?"

"She may have had a…suggestion or two."

Meg arched an eyebrow in disbelief. " _She_ has _suggestions…_ for _me_?"

"The only one worth mentioning is that she thought it might be more believable, in keeping with the overall theme of the number, if you kept the expressions on your face controlled, as well."

Meg huffed in annoyance. Finished with her meal, she threw her napkin onto the table and leaned back in her chair. Erik let her simmer, focusing on finishing the food on his plate. Meg's countenance changed quite unexpectedly, as she thought about the new idea.

"Actually, that might just work. I'll try being unemotional the next time I'm rehearsing in front of my mirror."

Later in the night, both Erik and Meg settled into their routine of changing into their night clothes. Meg hurried to do so and abandoned putting on her robe, in order to be the first seated on the sofa in front of the fireplace. Erik came out soon after, wearing his robe and night shirt, and he walked straight to the fireplace to open the grate and prepare the kindling.

Meg stopped him with her hands on his chest. He looked at her, puzzled and waiting. She brushed her hands down to his abdomen and then stepped back, dropping them to her sides. She held out one hand, which he grabbed with a quizzical expression. Then she led him to her room without a word. He followed obediently, with a satisfied smirk on his half-masked face.

Once they were in her room, Meg stopped within the entryway and placed her arms around Erik's neck. He held her trim waist in his bare hands, letting his fingers trace the trim of her nightgown and the shape of her body. She looked up at him and he stared down at her.

When she went to kiss him, he turned and began to lightly kiss her jawline and neck. She frowned at his denial, and she pulled her head away from him. He looked back at her and narrowed his eyes. She clenched her jaw and tried again. He dodged her intentions and pulled her closer as he closed his mouth on her earlobe and sucked at the skin there. She gasped and pushed against his chest.

"Why won't you kiss me? We kissed on the ship, so why not now?"

Erik let her go, then. He turned away from her, and suddenly found his reflection staring back at him from the full-length mirror in Meg's room. He covered his mouth with a hand and rubbed the area with his hands. As if he was trying to rid his lips of something offensive. He pulled the hand away and it fell to his side. He continued staring at himself. Meg moved to stand next to him, watching his reflection. His eyes darted to hers in the mirror.

"I shouldn't have kissed you."

Meg's heart sank in her chest, but her face remained calm, seeking an explanation.

"Why not?"

"Christine kissed me."

Meg couldn't hide her confusion. _When did Christine…_

"The night in my catacombs, before I fled the Opera Populaire with you. That pugnacious Vicomte found us, somehow. I had Christine make a choice: leave with me willingly and I would spare her lover's life, or deny me again and watch her lover die."

Meg's breath caught in her throat. Her face hardened at the reveal of the Phantom's cruelty.

"She kissed me," Erik looked away from the mirror, from himself and from Meg. "I didn't expect her to do so. I did not have my mask on…I was sure she would be too frightened, too disgusted to even look at me. But she kissed me. My wretched self."

Her resolve faltered at his self-depreciating words, but she stayed where she was. He looked down and continued his story.

"I felt her lips against mine, her cheeks, her hands on my hideous face. She poured her love into me at that moment. I thought my heart would explode, feeling so much at once. When she pulled away, she looked at me, staring past my scars, past my transgressions… And I knew. She would resent me forever if I made her choose between her love and her freedom. So I freed him." He paused, briefly. "I freed them."

He turned back to Meg, then, and took a step toward her. She remained still, her hands clasped in front of her.

"I didn't feel that strongly, when I kissed you," his eyes stared into hers, apologizing wordlessly. He swallowed a lump in his throat. "It wasn't the same. And I can't change that." He let the back of his fingers graze her cheek as he moved his body against hers. "I want you, Meg. But I'm not sure I can love you."

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, but Meg blinked repeatedly to wash them away. She didn't know if she necessarily wished for the Phantom to love her, but she was hurt by his confession nonetheless. Erik took her into an embrace, and she let her arms fall to her sides as her body went slack against his.

"I care for you, I will always protect you, and, as I said before, you can have everything that I have left to give. Is that enough?"

She smiled sadly and pulled him towards her bed.

 _It's enough, for now_ , she conceded in her mind.

They pulled their few garments off without ceremony, eager to find comfort in each other's bodies. Meg lay atop Erik, kissing his chest and clavicle, while his hands firmly grabbed her buttocks. He guided his hands down the backs of her thighs, spreading her legs so that she straddled him.

When she reared up, she used her nails to lightly scratch curved designs into his upper body, feeling prideful when Erik threw his head back in unexpected abandon. His hands rested on her folded knees, and he squeezed them a little roughly. She made a tiny squeak of protest in response, and he gently traced up her thighs back to her waistline. She took a breath and rose up on her knees to position herself.

As Erik entered her, they both let out sighs of pleasure, and Meg began to steadily rock herself on top of him. He sat up, then, and moved them back against the headboard of the bed. He cupped the back of her neck with his hand and stared into her eyes, willing her to quicken her pace. She did so, until he stilled her with his strong hands. She paused, uncertain what he wanted, and he bent down to take one of her bared nipples into his mouth.

She moaned as a result of the sensitivity of that action and leaned further into him. He lavished attention on both breasts, nipping and playing his tongue around her abundant mounds.

He rolled them over, and Meg was quick to lock her legs around his waist in anticipation. Still sheathed inside her, he removed his turgid length to feel the sensation of entering her again. He moved slowly, as if savoring the feeling that he had been without for too many weeks to remember. She responded to his rhythm by raking her nails up and down his back. His lips went to her neck, then, pressing warm kisses to every inch of skin there.

He began to move more quickly above her, but he waited for her release to come, working her into a frenzy with the relentless pace and friction. He finished shortly after she did, breathing heavily and collapsing upon the bed beside her.

Once she had regained her senses, she rolled over to lay against his side, placing her hand on his sweaty chest and watching it move up and down with his deep breaths. Her leg curled over his and she lay her head on his muscular shoulder. Erik eventually placed his hand over hers and nodded off to sleep.

Meg stayed awake, watching the single candle next to her bed burn out and deliver the room into darkness.

She thought about what Erik had said.

She wanted love.

She did not love Erik.

At least, she was almost certain she didn't love Erik.

But what if she could? What if, one day, she did?

_Will it be enough, then?_


End file.
